


The glittering lights of Monaco

by ScaredyRacer



Category: Formula 1 RPF, Motorsport RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2020-10-29 09:01:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 49,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20794076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScaredyRacer/pseuds/ScaredyRacer
Summary: Charles spends his last week of summer break at home in Monaco with his beloved Pierre and their three-year old adoptive son Alexis. It was supposed to be fun. It was supposed to be cozy, easy, relaxing---all of the positive things. But all of his heart wrenching struggles to bond with his son aside as another heartache shows up like a ghost from the past and Charles lures himself onto a risky path with no idea of the consequences of his actions.To you: This story tackles bonding issues between a father and his child, worthlessness, angst, family conflicts and discrimination. Just a heads up. Now, grab something nice to drink and get comfy as this story begins in a sunny, glittering Monaco in the year of 2022...





	1. The lost and leaving

* * *

Charles Leclerc wanders in a lush park, his endearing husband Pierre's hand brushing against the back of his as he accompanies him under the trees pierced by sunlight of August. With gentle strides forward, careful to not wake their adoptive son cuddling asleep in the stroller, Pierre steers it safely on the crunching path they walk on. 

”Imagine Nice could be such a calm, wonderful place in the summer,” Charles says softly and stops to look at a squirrel collecting a piece of bread from a loud group of ducks and then it speeds off with one duck hot on its furry little heels. Pierre puts on a smile and Charles laughs mildly, leaning into his side and they begin walking again.   
Upon approaching a glistening pond large as a football field where families play with their dogs and newly in love couples sits on the grass, kissing each other between smiles and giggling, they can't resist the sudden urge of making this place; them; this moment into a forever with a selfie. Pierre posts their picture online. _Tap, tap, tap. Blip._ So that all of the people he so loves and cares about can relive his happiness through their lit-up screens back at home in north of France. While he gets absorbed by the addictive scroll and tap and likes, Charles leaves him in the same way, almost. Just. He sees a familiar face within a group of down-and-out underdogs gathered in the shadow of a majestic oak nearby. The face belongs to a gangly man, dressed in torn jeans and he hunches like some night creature above the rest. He wears a black hooded wind jacket with its hood up. It looks uncomfortably warm, but Charles accepts it as a sign of malnourishment and stares some more at the side of his face as the man lights a smoke between his lips. He recognizes his nose most of all as it arches the same way a F1 car’s nose does. 

A small ray of sunlight touches Charles's eyelashes as he pulls his sunglasses down from his eyes to the tip of his nose. Everything looks even more alive as the nature now stands around him bursting in every color imaginable, and the hooked nosed man suddenly catches him staring. Some kind of hot, warm light ignites within Charles, spreading itself to his heart, making it beat uncontrollably. The man turns away. The moment over. He sees him leave on his own in the direction of the soundless sea beyond the cluster of pine trees. Where are you going? He wants to ask him. You used to be one of my friends. We battled each other on the race tracks around the world for three years. And that one time you caught out nearly a half of us at the start of Spain's Grand Prix, making no excuses, you just absorbed the hate and the blame they gave you and for so damn long. You spiraled; complained about everything. I have never seen a driver lose so much confidence before. The Beauty of it; you picked yourself back up. You were ready to rock the world in your black Haas. What really happened between then and now. Charles doesn't run after him. Turning away like that is the same way of telling someone to leave them alone. He stays, shading his eyes with the darkness of his sunglasses. 

”What are you looking at?” Pierre begins in his usual curious manner, then proceeds, unstoppable like a bulldozer on steroids, ”Can you guess who just got spotted in Monte-Carlo?” 

Moving just a fraction, Charles tears is eyes off the man's back and looks at Pierre. ”Someone I know?” 

”Could be...” Pierre smirks chipperly, "And it's Someone's birthday today apparently." 

”Esteban Ocon?” Charles says the first name popping up, having a clear memory they celebrated him around this time last year. 

"Sorry babe, wrong country." Pierre looks pitiful at him. 

They walk slowly through the park in silence for a while, and Charles, looking now and again at the tree line for his old friend, forgets about his husband's guessing game as the inner image of that bleak, smoking and homeless-looking creature; once Romain Grosjean; now grows in his mind like cancer. Then, a warm hand touches his naked arm, and the planet stops orbiting, pauses, and goes silent for just a moment while all of the haunting images of Romain fades away. He turns his head at his sweet husband. Pierre sends him a simple smile before taking a large swallow of water from a bottle supposed to be leak proof, but Pierre and his untiring appetite ignores this detail as droplets releases from his stubbled chin. One, two... on to his grey and white t-shirt. 

”Come on. Make a guess," Pierre halfheartedly dares him, putting away the bottle in the stroller bag. 

Pursing his mouth, Charles ponders over it. ”He's a driver, huh?” 

”Yes.” 

”Maybe Sebastian?” Pierre's eyes tells him no. ”Checo? Lewis? Max…...?” _ No, no, no. _

”It's Nico Hülkenberg,” Pierre announces. 

Charles dips his head in mock-defeat. Pierre scoffs a laugh at him as he pushes on, moving toward a cluster of market stands near the park entrance. It's crowded and Charles hesitates. That's just… asking to be recognized, walking in there, they could end up signing autographs till midnight. 

”My brother wrote he just saw Nico down by the marina in MC,” Pierre continues. ”Do you think he's here to celebrate?” He stops to check on their son Alexis. The three-year old toddler is still sound asleep where he half-sits in his stroller, looking like a jumping jack with both plump legs bent in either direction and his left arm dangling over the edge. Charles wonders if Alexis is about to break his own record in napping time that little bundle of joy or if they soon will have their hands full chasing after him around the park. 

"Sure,” Charles half shrugs, ”I bet Nico has friends over here, like most of us.” 

”Let's hope so.” Pierre grabs their son's arm ever so tenderly and gently lays it down on his tummy. ”Spending your birthday on your own sounds really boring.” 

”Well, some people love their birthday, some hate it,” Charles debates. ”They party like animals, or sit at home eating ice cream.” 

”The real reason someone say they hate their birthday is because they are afraid of changes, but ice cream isn't going to cure your mortality and the more you run from it, the worse it gets.” 

”Yes true, but each to their own, you know.” 

"So, you're gonna let them be scared and lonely?" 

Charles huffs out a quiet laugh. "Oh no, I'm gonna buy a bakery and sell them home-alone birthday cakes. It would make a good profit.” 

"Really?" Pierre sighs. "I think you should buy..." 

"A casino," Charles fills in jokingly. 

Pierre grimaces and shakes his head. "I know you're joking, but fuck me... Because you said that, I feel it'd be a very good idea for you to do some charity. Donate money to the homeless. At least 150 000 Euro." 

There is not one single hint of hesitation in Pierre's voice which Charles can detect, neither does his face convey any shred of doubt, only determination radiating from his crystal-grey eyes staring on him. Even though he already knows supporting the homeless really means stuffing money into over-greedy mayors' pockets, he can't argue against him. Having seen it on cable TV growing up, like: parents on drugs, their kids on drugs, firearms spewing bullets at noon in poor countries and desperation of not having enough food to feed oneself, he is long due to do something to help those who really needs it out there other than promoting Hublot watches like a game changer to the world. 

"All right, I will try to help as many as possible," he agrees with a reassuring smile at his husband. 

More and more visitors coming in and out of the market alley swarms by them as they close in on it. Charles slows down on his pace while discreetly gazing between bodies for an escape route while Pierre doesn't care about that and heads straight for the first market booth to their left. The owner, an older man in a dark blue chaperon, raises his hand at them, his wide grin looking nothing but friendly. Charles makes sure he smiles back, finding himself feeling like an elephant trying to blend in among curious Meerkats. For a couple of minutes, they navigate between booths on each side while more and more people begin to ogle at them curiously. Charles feels strangely cramped in Pierre's tow, wishing nothing else but to get the hell out of this park. 

"Let's go," Pierre suddenly commands him, firmly. Perhaps he sensed it too. 

Coming out of the park at last, Charles peeks around the dark canopy shielding Alexis from the blistering hot sun and sees two sleepy little eyes looking back at him. 

"Look who's awake," he says, pulling back the canopy over his son's cap coated head. Alexis looks up at his parents astound before an unhappy wrinkle appears between his eyebrows. 

"Not funny!" He pouts, very unhappy and tries to grab the sunshade with his too short arms coming up at the sky. 

Charles smiles. "You sure little champ?" 

"Bye bye butterfly." Pierre pulls the canopy back over Alexis carefully, then he reaches down in the stroller bag and picks up a pacifier on a red Scudera Ferrari string which he hands over to Charles. "Let's see if we can keep him calm until we get back home, yeah?" 

"I think he'll be alright." Charles smiles, knowing a positive attitude can trump experience which they had just a little over two years of when it came to parenting. Pierre stops so that he can move over to hand little Alexis Leclerc his pacifier more easily. 

A very delightful toddler greets him in the stroller, reaching after the pacifier. "I take it, pleasch." 

Charles folds his hand around the dummy and its string, then he switches around his hands quickly a couple of times, and stops, hands crossed in front of Alexis who looks at him with big, brown eyes and gaping mouth. Amazed. 

"Which one?" Charles asks, a laugh building up in his belly. "where is it?" 

"There," tries Alexis, touching his left-hand knuckles. 

Still smiling, Charles opens up his empty left-hand and Alexis's face goes into theatrical shock again. 

"What's this magic trick, huh?" His other dad asks, coming over and crouches down by the side of the stroller. 

"I want dummy daddy," Alexis reaches out his hand to Pierre's face, then points at the sky. "Look bird!" 

"Alexis." Charles tries to get his attention. 

Alexis stretches out his arms as wide as he can, looking to Charles "Big bird! Look," he says, tilting his head back and points at the sky. 

"A swan," Pierre says, observing the white flapping bird above them. 

"A saan," Alexis copies with a chuckle. 

"Quick, take the dummy Alexis, before the swan steals it." Charles opens up his hand, revealing the pacifier and watches his son babble as he takes it clumsily from him before putting it into his mouth, shaking his head. there we go, Charles sees that well-known content look on his face, hoping it will last for at least an hour so they can have a nice walk back to their car as well as a relaxed drive back to their apartment in Monte-Carlo. 

*********

Later when all three of them are on their way out of Nice, Charles sitting relaxed behind the wheel with his husband leaning into the back, picking up a toy from the floor and Alexis quietly in his child seat in the center rear seat, a song comes on the radio that stirs up a dusty-feeling tornado in Charles's mind. It pulls up flakes of recollections. An overjoyed Romain spraying fizzy champagne at him and Sebastian Vettel on his last podium win. Fans shouting. Him trying to overtake Romain, tons of sweat drops wetting his candy red suit. Romain laughing as he attempts to fry eggs on the side pod of his F1 car, at his request. Funeral ceremony for dear Jules Bianchi. A very scrawny, sickly-looking Romain puffing smoke among homeless people. Charles's stomach shrinks in on itself, sends a melancholy blue midnight rippling through him. Coming up to a street light sector with red lights flashing his way, he looks over to the touch screen stereo hastily and reads the song title scrolling by: David Guetta - Dangerous. _ Everything falls _ _ into _ _ place _. Pierre starts whistling along to the chorus and Charles turns the volume down to 2 % so Pierre doesn't get to the next part of the song. It's bad enough as it is. 

"Why? It's a good song," Pierre argues, confused. 

Charles wrinkles his nose. "I don't like it." 

"Oh. Sorry." Pierre sounds a little put off, and Charles turns his head at him for clues of his current mood, but can merely see the back of his jaw as he has turned himself away from him to look out through his window. 

Red goes yellow goes green. The cars ahead of them snails up in speed. Charles exhales slowly and follows the trail of cars ahead. He doesn't know what expression he’s wearing, but his husband softly takes his hand resting on the center armrest, and in the corner of his eye he can see Pierre leaning little closer to him while he continues to focus on the road, increasing pressure on the gas. 

"How long have you disliked that song?" Pierre asks. 

Charles hesitates for just a second - because is this going somewhere? 

"Since 2020." 

Pierre sits back in his seat with a puff. "Why?" 

"Do you really want to dig up that ghost?" 

"Yes, because I should know because I'm your husband," Pierre replies. "I mean...you can talk about it with me. Right, Alexis?" 

Their son makes a noise that doesn't mean anything, at all. Charles looks at him through the rear-view mirror, happy to see he looks very content and is currently enjoying himself fiddling with his plushie. Charles breathes out. 

"Okay, I'll talk about it. In 2014 Romain Grosjean made a cameo in that music video and in 2020 at Silverstone, he stepped out of his F1 car on Friday evening and then we never saw him again. Remember? " He pauses and shrugs a shoulder. "And no one seems to know why he left or what happened to him." 

"You told me he retired because of injury." Pierre tightens his grip on his hand, but not in a kind, soothing way. 

"Yeah, I did," Charles recalls, sounding way more defensive than he wanted to, and Pierre's hand contracts even more around his fingers like a snake, cutting blood supply off and it burns. 

"Look, it's not me keeping you out," Charles reassures as calmly as he can manage. 

"You are." 

"No. I honestly don't understand why you think that. You can't start... Oh my God..."

"You told me an injury made him retire and now you tell me it's not true?" Pierre releases him suddenly. "How many years it's been, like two? And only now I find out you don't know what happened—if that's not keeping me out, I don't know what is!" 

"No, no. You know what? I said that because that's what they told us at the drivers' briefing the day after which you skipped out on for some damn reason. Way later in December I asked Guenther how Romain was doing, if he was well enough to drive again and he told me they hadn't heard from him since Silverstone either, and they didn't even know why he'd left." 

"You kept all of that from me for two years? That is LYING. You fucking lied to me!" Pierre's hand slams down on the mid-console, hard. Someone very innocent in the back hiccups in surprise at the sudden thud. Charles takes a deep breath as he clenches his hands hard around the steering wheel. _ It's _ _ okay Alexis. _ _ Don't _ _ cry _ _ . _ _ Don't _ _ cry _ _ . _

"Please, I love you, I try my best to fill you in on everything," he hears himself plead to Pierre. 

"You could have told me back then it wasn't true. Why didn't you?" 

"I didn't think it mattered since Romain isn't even a friend of yours." 

"Your friends matter to me because they matter to you." Pierre stares at him for a long moment, then he continues, "he was your friend, then suddenly he was out of your life and you think I'm the last man on earth who cares?" 

"Well, you let two years pass without bothering asking me about it so I guess we're even, right?" Charles snaps back at him. His frustration peaks and then deflates just as quickly, and then he feels ashamed. Pierre wasn't wrong in his assumption, but maybe his perception isn't quite there when it comes to that stuff. 

"Stop daddy..." Alexis mumbles worriedly in the most of hearth wrenching ways, talking to Pierre who he always refers to as 'daddy' while calling Charles just 'Chaas'. Pierre instantly shifts in his seat to care for their son, cooing encouraging little somethings with his deep, soft voice. Charles checks them out in the mirror a couple of times whilst guilt and slivers of pity gnaws in his gut. 

"I'm sorr..." 

"Don't care," Pierre interrupts coldly. 

And with it comes a silence thicker than hardened concrete, uncompromising, but they'd get through this. It's just another bump in the road, and Charles makes a silent promise to himself to buy Pierre a nice gift tomorrow and maybe write a short love letter to go with it. Pierre will forgive him soon enough; he won't allow any other outcome. 


	2. Fishing for butterflies

Naturally, like any father, Charles's husband protects his son doubtlessly from any kind of threat he might encounter. He is like a powerful, stunning galaxy exceeding dooming stars and voracious black holes mercilessly for the sake of his own planets and novas. In the center, his blinding sun anchors every planet he holds dear into place. The sun radiates a true warmth from its core that sparks of endless love and devotion, it flutters between the planets like majestic colorful butterflies. However, loops in his galaxy are destructively deceptive and they can change so easily for the worse, and bring a planet far out to the outskirts where a burning cold loneliness always shrouds. Some planets never make it back to the sun, but new ones always turn up to replace them. It's a vindictive circle. Pierre's subconsciously volatile, yet has a wonderful loving side that forgives his trivial flaws. Charles sees himself as the largest, second most important celestial body after Alexis encircling Pierre's sun. But it has become a lot colder now. He can see the dancing monarchs trying to reach him, but he knows Pierre isn't going to offer him any love or attention tonight. 

Stepping through the double-door entrance to their grand apartment, Pierre speaks to him for the first time since their argument in the car: "You can sleep in the guest room tonight while I fuck myself to sleep in ours," he says, holding their son in his arms as he walks down the pale hallway towards their sleeping quarters. 

"Thank you, thank you,” Charles says dryly, locking the door. “Can’t wait to hear you scream my name through the wall.” 

"Shut up!” Pierre yells back from another room which Charles perceives to be Alexis’s across from their rather overdone master suite. 

Charles feels truly sorry for Alexis who least of all in this world deserves to experience their struggles to keep everything from falling apart right in front of him now and again. But, hadn’t it been for Romain showing up in the park in that weird, unexpected way, calling up emotions painting darker shades to his mood and that song kicking up the storm further, this fight had never surfaced. That song was truly _dangerous__._   
  
  
Before he goes to sleep that night, Charles quietly crouches down by Alexis’s cradle and reaches his hand between the white poles to gently give his sleeping son a caress on his arm. The silent rotating night lamp in the background projects dull, but colorful and cute fishes which sails around them on the teal green walls and on the bunny plushie sitting in the cradle right behind Alexis in the corner, looking kind and protecting. 

“You look after him for me tonight, promise?” Charles whispers to it, merely uses any voice to sound the words out. He pretends they have sealed a deal and quietly makes his way out of there, heading to the guestroom for a lonesome night in the other end of the apartment. 

Sleep doesn’t come easy to him this very night as he lies on the side, facing the arched window covered with black, thick drapes, shutting and opening his tired eyes over and over, but the monster from before won’t pull down the curtains on his mind yet. He asks himself; “_ What if I had followed Romain when he walked away? _ ” And; “ _ What the hell happened to him? Why the smoking? And the homeless, are they his friends now? Where’s his family?” _ Why doesn’t he know anything about what’s going on with his old friend? That’s what he meant earlier when he told Pierre he isn’t the one keeping him out; It’s them – Romain himself and possibly more than one other person on this planet. They are keeping him out and what seems to be everyone else within the mastodonic Formula 1 community. 

Something rips open inside of him and bleeds out a sorrowful blackness in his lungs. It gets harder to breathe. He turns on his back, pushes down the duvet from his chest and feels his lungs expand with air again. A moment passes, and the isolating feeling of being so close and yet so far from his family has returned like an old nemesis from a dark den under his bed. Some strange explainable compulsion makes him reach for his phone on the nightstand and turn on the screen. The light from it is so scorching blinding he must put the phone face down on his chest, just for a couple of seconds, and then with his eyes turning back to normal, he tries again. 

00:34 shows on the screen, hoovering right above the little heads of him, Pierre and Alexis sitting together at their favorite restaurant in Santa Monica. They should go back there and eat after the American Grand Prix in October; he thinks to himself before swiping up Google and types Romain Grosjean in the search bar. 

Nothing. 

Nothing. 

Scrolling. 

Old news. 

Lots of old photos of Romain racing and standing on podiums, smiling, or looking displeased. 

Charles tries something he hasn’t done before and includes 2020 into his search, hoping it could work out some magic for him. The first headlines showing up in the feed he scrolls past quickly, having seen them before, then after a couple of pages he sees a headline that tightens some strange knot in his heart. It’s in German so he can’t fully understand it, but with the two familiar words “Villa” and “familie” squeezed into the title he can’t let it slip away. On the page that opens up before him there’s a large picture of Romain's home, a big, picturesque mansion with a small picture of Romain himself inserted in the right bottom corner. Google thankfully asks to translate the page into French instantly. He taps, “oui “, sits up and raises his eyebrows in mild surprise. 

“Frigid F1 pilot is now left to growing pains outside family in Switzerland.” 

The whole page has the same spelling of that of a ten-year-old Italian improvising French. It’s just complete nonsense. He checks the date of the article and it was published about a week before the British Grand Prix. Something about Romain, his house and his family over in Switzerland had happened. It’s a damn guessing game figuring out what. He passes an eye over the rest of the article before he gives up and sends it via pm to one of his engineers speaking German, asking him to give him a rough translation of it. Smiley face. Wrench. 

Putting his phone away, and rolling over, facing the window, he falls immediately into a peaceful slumber. He dreams of the article and wakes up hours later certain the house burnt down. But then he finds a reply from his engineer, explaining briefly the journalist critiques Romain for his renovation plans for his historic mansion in Switzerland. Even in his dream he had been trying to work out the article and still didn’t get it right. 

After a sixty-minute work-out, a quick shower, and a phone call from his team principal Mattia, Charles is the last person to sit down for breakfast in their minimalistic and luxurious kitchen. Pierre is busying himself filling up the dishwasher, whistling along to a song softly emerging from every in-wall speaker inside their home, while Alexis plays happily with his toys only a couple of meters from the kitchen table inside the living room. Charles watches him between gulping his super healthy smoothie and chewing down fried eggs and bacon Pierre had cooked in the microwave earlier. This must be one of the bests views one could have while eating breakfast, watching Alexis being fully absorbed in his own little world and just having the time of his life. Then just think of all the fun they are going to have later on in his childhood. 

The sound of dishes clinking and dishwasher closing shut breaks apart his thoughts. He looks over at his husband and he looks back at him in that quiet, curious way of his, rubbing his hands on a white towel before quickly throwing it onto the kitchen island as he makes him way over to him. Pierre's brown messy hair looks unusually shiny in the sunlight beaming through the tall windows behind him. He's only wearing a pair of black boxers this morning, showing off a tan, well-trained torso to the world; hard to not stare at. As his partner Charles is allowed to admire Pierre's sexiness, otherwise it's a minefield these days. 

Pierre slides down on the chair by the short end next to him like he owns the table, the room, the windows, the everything. Charles's heart swells with raw-sienna desire, and he takes a small swallow of his smoothie while they hold gaze, Pierre's serious expression turns into a smile. 

"Who were you talking to on the phone earlier?" 

"Mattia," Charles says. "The negotiations are done. I'm off to Maranello next Friday to sign a new contract." 

"A new one?" Pierre's confusion tells him he probably had prepare himself for a different outcome. 

"Yes. It's just a single year extended contract though." 

"Oh. That's very good news considering..." 

Charles nods. 

"I was right then," Pierre implies, "about them not being too interested in Mick Schumacher." 

"Yeah, it was a close one though," Charles says. "I owe you my weight in gold for pulling some strings for me." 

"Your weight?" Pierre scoffs, amused. "That's not going to cut it. No, no, no." He shakes his head. "Unless you gain at least a hundred... I mean two hundred kilos -" 

"If I can gain two hundred kilos under-" Charles checks his watch "-five hours, we'll be fine." 

Pierre stands, pretty like a supermodel in the sunlight, moves softly on his bare feet like a flamingo in the shallows, coming up behind him and wraps his nude arms around his neck in a very, comfortable light way. 

"Sounds way too stressful, my poor darling Charles," Pierre mumbles close to his ear and gives him a sweet peck on his neck. 

The Monarchs fluttering has reached Charles finally, making him crave that. . . special fire of Pierre's. So, he lifts his head enough to look at him, silently prompting him to lean in for a kiss. Pierre doesn't hesitate for a beat, closing his eyes and meets his lips with his own. It's a tender moment that drags on with tongue and teeth, Charles hand in Pierre's fluffy hair, curling at vibrant locks. 

Pierre is the one to break the kiss, and he smirks cheek to cheek with him. A little while longer he remains there, so close the warmth on their cheeks threatens to melt them together. Charles breaths his scents with every breathe, reminding himself of all the reasons he loves him. Then he reminds himself there's one thing he must get off his chest from yesterday. 

"Any plans for today?" He asks Pierre casually. 

"Mm," Pierre hums. Charles can feel him smile. "My brother is coming over for lunch. Then in the afternoon we'll go karting in town." 

"That's nice," Charles says politely, just so he has something to say. Then he gathers confidence for a second before he takes the bull by the horn. "Look, I never got to tell you yesterday that... I saw Romain in the park." 

"Grosjean?" Pierre guesses, surprisingly correct. "Are you sure?" 

"Yes, that was his nose on his face," Charles asserts. 

"Well, what are you going to do?" 

"I was thinking maybe go back to Nice and look for him," he says as Pierre moves his arms and himself away from his neck to sit down on his chair. "But I don't know if he has a home there or if he lives on the street." 

"The street?" Pierre stares big-eyed at him. 

"Yeah. He looked really miserable, worn-out and skinny... And he was smoking something. Kind of like a homeless guy, you know. Suppose I can look for him in the park, see if he turns up." 

“Right... You'll be swarmed by fans in this weather,” Pierre says dismissively, but the weather is the same as yesterday. “Instead, why don’t you spend some time with Alexis here in MC? Take him to see the fishes at Oceanographic. Or the mini zoo. He loves that.” 

Right. A stab of guilt – Charles is already missing out on a big portion of Alexis’s first years only from traveling with his job alone. He observes his son for a short moment, knowing to never take things for granted. 

“Hey Alexis,” he calls on him. 

Their son stops playing to look back at him. 

“Do you wanna go pet some bunnies with me at the zoo?” He asks, and Alexis shakes his little head firmly. “You sure?” He checks. 

Pierre snorts. “Come on. He’s only three. He doesn’t know what he wants.” 

"Looks to me like he does," Charles says to him, certain, turning back to Alexis, "Alexis? Wanna go in the car with me to Nice and play in the park instead?" 

"Yah!" The toddler claps his hands together. "It fun when cah-ar is this... fast and wroooom." 

Charles laughs a little and beams at Pierre. "He's pretty smart for his age." 

Pierre is silent, adamantly ignoring him. 

Frustration boils up so fast it surprises even Charles. "Look, if you don't feel comfortable about me taking him with me to the park, just tell me." 

Pierre clears his throat. "No, the park is fine. I just never thought you'd ever make time to go on adventures with him on your own that reaches beyond the boundaries of our home. It's a big step," he explains somberly. "I'm proud of you. And I'm happy... But I'm also a bit worried that you will run into Romain being all high and weird on drugs. That will scare Alexis big time." 

Merely the thought of his old friend being stoned put a strange, sinking-stone feeling inside of Charles; He hopes it's not a twisted truth but a lethal-green misunderstanding. He discerns a gleam of angst simmering in his Pierre's eyes as he steadily folds a hand around his on the table. 

"I hope you understand you're married to a guy who's not gonna stop trying being the best dad he can be, because he knows that we're gonna end up as world champions in parenting one day," he vows. "And if that scares you - tough, 'cause you're gonna have to deal with that." 

A gleam of hope flashes over Pierre's features. "Can't wait." 

"Good, because I love you." 

Pierre huffs a nervous laugh. "Ditto." 


	3. Black flag

It didn't feel good, convincing Alexis fun was afoot out the door when he desperately tries to convince Charles back; Fun is where Pierre is; Safety is where Pierre is. Pierre, the-always-there-to-dry-a-tear Pierre. That's how the reality looks like, and Charles feels so constantly out of place trying to bond with this little boy who never asked to be their adoptive son to begin with. It was all on them, and back then, he recollects the sense of being invincible - bringing home wins for the team, huge pay checks, love beyond everything to Pierre. Adopting felt so right at that time, and Pierre doubtlessly stepped off his F1 career once they'd been approved. Although Charles's mother, reeling between dread and delight, had pressed so many times it might be too early; Please, don't rush into this, it's going to be the biggest challenge and you boys can't imagine...   
  
When Alexis defies him for the tenth time, tossing his shoe off down the hallway, Charles sees the black flag flap at him uphill, number 16 shows up on a large, red sign. Why he didn't have patience to control a child when he never ceased to run low on it in his job, was a question for scientific writers.   
  
"Do you wanna walk the park without shoes?" He seriously wants to know, grabbing Alexis's upper arms but not too firmly, and forces him to face him.   
  
"I not want go park!"   
  
It doesn't surprise Charles to hear, it's been repeated for the last half hour. He apologetically lets the boy go and watches him turn a tearful look at the umber baby gate keeping him apart from the joys and game going on downstairs between Pierre and Pierre's brother. They were engaged in racing duels, the loud screeching of virtual tires locking up thrusts themselves through every wall every so often, followed by cursing or laughs. Before all of that, they had made a deal: Charles wouldn't back out and Pierre wouldn't give in to Alexis's pleads and tears. It seems so stupid now, but Charles can feel his tongue curl up against the back of his mouth as his lungs fills up with air, as if preparing himself to call for his husband to help him. _I'm__ not fit for __this__battle__! Save __me__!_   
  
Then Alexis takes his other shoe off and tosses it too - _thump_. "Stupid Chaas!"   
  
"Look, Alexis," Charles says as he gets up from the floor to collect his son's two Nike shoes, then coming back he crouches down before him. "Pierre is busy with his brother and he wants us to go to the park and have fun. We can drive my Ferrari if you like?"   
  
Alexis stomps his foot. "Shut up!"   
  
"Seriously?" Charles feels frustration and shreds of shame curl into a hard knot in his tightening chest.   
  
"Shut up, shut up, shut up!" Alexis continues loudly and knocks one of his shoes out of Charles's grip, and tries to hit the other too, but Charles throws it aside so he can't. Angrily the toddler goes over to it, picks it up and tosses it as far as possible down the hallway.   
  
"Pierre!" Charles gives up, pausing to hear if his shout had been loud enough to reach into the rambunctious gaming room. "Pierre! Could you come up for a minute?!" He tries again while holding a steady eye on Alexis crying by the grey couch inside the living room. Their poor son stuck in a struggle again he couldn't help or handle. It pains him so much he falls like a domino piece emotionally, and making his way over to his son, he wishes for his soft little arms to reach out for him and he would hug him, comfort him and feel better. Nothing of sorts happens. Alexis lashes out to hit him, not to hug, and Charles takes the hit to his leg before sitting down on the couch, sighing in defeat.   
  
"No park," Alexis says sourly, lashing out again and gets his arm caught by Charles's hand in mid-air, stalling.   
  
"Don't hit me."   
  
"What's going on?" Pierre asks from behind somewhere, offering not much but indifference to the situation from the sound of it. "Can't find your keys again?"   
  
"Pierre, I don't think you comprehend how insolent our son is," Charles replies seriously and gets up from the comfortness of the couch, spotting his husband under the archway to the kitchen with a Red Bull in his hand.   
  
"Oh, so, you're calling ME out for being a bad parent?" 

"Okay, that's the Red Bull talking."   
  
Pierre makes an impatient noise as he takes a sip from his can, and then jabs, "So, what? You giving up?"   
  
Charles looks over at Alexis, taking note how he shies behind the couch as if too scared to run for safety which is in Pierre's arms. There's a dinosaur in the way, threatening to remove him from his safe space.   
  
"I... You know, I tried really hard, but he doesn't wanna go," Charles admits to his husband and has to force himself to tear his gaze away from Alexis to look back at Pierre again, feeling overly ashamed he took the black flag so early in the race.   
  
"You're doing the same shit over and over," Pierre argues, "why can't you get it into your head we have a three-year old who's too young to understand what he wants? Just stop reasoning with him and just take him and go. It's that simple!"   
  
"I really love to, but I truly don't think he wants that," Charles says evenly, softly, worried if he charged back, Alexis's little thumping heart would sink deeper than ever before. "Look, I can call and ask my mom if she has time to babysit so you don't have to... You know. I'm sorry."   
  
"Yeah, sure." Pierre sounds remarkably composed all of the sudden, calmly leaving his Red Bull on the kitchen table before coming over to pick up Alexis in his arms and carries him out in the hall with no effort at all, no struggle, no tears or yelling.  
  
Charles feels strangely alienated and for a moment he does nothing, just breaths, wondering if he could ever create that kind of bond with Alexis, and what it would be like. 

** **** **

Before he leaves for Nice in his red Ferrari 812 Superfast after making through a rather festive lunch with Pierre, the brother, Alexis and his mom, Charles wakes his phone and opens up a group chat he and a small bunch of other F1 drivers uses for snarky comments, funny pictures, and types:   
  
**Charles**: Any leads on Grosjean's whereabouts? ;P   
  
What a nose-dive. At least he got the winky face with tongue in there. Maybe it sounds absurd enough to make up for the complete lack of timing. It's great fun because that's what he likes about this particular group chat - that it gives you the ability to reach out and have a laugh once in a while with both rivals and friends.   
He clicks the seat belt into place and starts the car and lightly flirts with the gas pedal, ejecting the Ferrari forward calmly down the street. Driving gives him something to do as he thinks about that scrawny looking Romain in the park, and that strange intense look he had received from him the moment before he turned away.   
A bulky Hummer, shiny and white, interferes his thoughts as it speeds by him and eases over to his lane, way too close. Charles slams his hand on the horn, twice, lifting his foot off the gas just enough to save the front an unnecessary whack. People in Hummers are a group of jerks who seriously believes they own the road - get out the way, I'm bigger - mentality. Someday Charles wants to buy a hot air balloon and keep it always ready to go on the roof to their apartment, bring himself from place to place in the matter of days or weeks, and never have to mind anyone, anymore.   
On the highway between Monte-Carlo and Nice, Charles catches many passengers in passing cars staring at his car, and he truthfully can't deny he enjoys that bit of attention. Wearing a common, white non branded cap and a pair of dark sunglasses, he feels more at ease though, thinking they can't make out his identity. At least not through the murky window tints going on here. Several minutes later he overtakes a McLaren that quickly overtakes him in return. Then instincts pursue a wild need to redeem what just got lost, Charles matches speed with it on the opposite lane and the McLaren responds by roaring off in high speed, crossing between a truck and a merry little Volkswagen Beetle. It's not worth the gas money or the risk of getting a ticket. Charles decides so, slows his car down a notch as drumming adrenaline fades into an easy-going parade of amusement.   
  
2:40PM - It's the worst hour to visit the park in July. Turning into a large parking lot nearby, Charles shakes his head and mostly at himself for being such opportunist to believe he could get himself a parking space here at this hour. He coasts through the lanes slowly for a while, watching out for leaving visitors in the cool and comfortable void of his car. Eventually he sees a car backing out and he quickly races forward, spewing up gravel on the back of his own car and stops, a precise breaking with at least two meters to spare between him and the leaving car. As he pulls in between a parked black Volvo and a BMW M5 with a wild livery design, he hears himself exhale a loud breath, like trying to get rid of tension built up inside, but all he felt was a mere shudder move through his spine. He checks his phone the next thing after shutting off the engine. A message from the group chat appears on the screen.   
  
**Lewis H**: according to all known laws of Formula 1, asking about Grosjean is just as bad as ignoring blue flag   
  
**Max V**: Which you somehow know because?   
  
**EstebanOc**: I forgot who ignored blue flag in Hungary 300 times? Lewis or pigeon? :D   
  
**Lewis H**: pls one ridiculous problem at a time   
  
**D.Ricciardo**: Imagine the looks on the faces over at Haas when Romain suddenly crawls out of a rabbit hole gibbering nonsense with a tea pot on his head haha   
  
**Lewis H**: well I've had enough nonsense. I'm off   
  
**EstebanOc**: Lol 

**D.****Ricciardo**: See ya mate! Come back when you can't stay so long! :)   
  
Charles nearly laughs out loud at Daniels comments. What a witty, confident bastard. Esteban checking in with his comments, obviously to stir the pot between him and his team mate Lewis, makes it maybe even funnier. Now, here's the issue: What should he say? His thumbs hover over the keyboard. A soft murmur of voices erupts from outside, then an ambulance's sirens intensifies, flashes by, fades away in the distance. He types:   
  
**Charles**: What if Romain turns up one day? 

**D.Ricciardo**: You know what? There are a million reasons why he wouldn't... unless   
  
**EstebanOc**: Oh don't say it :S  
  
**D.Ricciardo**: Unless he's gone off-grid into some dense jungle   
  
**Max V**: Ba dum tss! 

Esteband sends a Gif of Tarzan. Daniel and Max finds a common interest in living off the grid and their insightful talking rapidly starts to fill up the screen. It's not interesting enough to keep up with. Esteban stops replying too, and Charles pushes his phone into his jean's pocket before he leaves his precious Ferrari in the company of the dullest and the vulgar. 


	4. The purple jacket

Charles stands on the pathway near the largest pond inside the park. It feels like he's been here for hours, but it's only been fourteen minutes. He'll give Romain ten more to reappear by the same oak as yesterday, and then he walks elsewhere. People look at him as they pass. It's slightly unnerving. Mostly because, hands down, getting recognized means getting stuck in place. The park was coming out of a coma and into rush hour. Remaining right here makes him a sitting duck for selfie-hungry-time-consuming fans. He picks out the AirPod from his right ear, puts it back in, corrects it and watches the world go by to promising tunes by Coldplay.   
  
Two minutes until he walks. He already plans out where he wants to look next—beyond that big oak of course. 

One minute until he walks. 

He lets the second hand pass number eight on his watch and then crosses the boundary between graveled path and lawn. He walks steadfast over the field with grim heat from the sun torching from above and behind. There's one plump woman standing by herself, looking up at the sky, her both hands cupped together against her chest. Praying? Admiring? Charles walks by in her background and does it unnoticed from what he knows. Then he reaches the very tree and spot where he saw Romain stand yesterday. He finds the grass mashed and dying. Cigarette butts tossed on the ground and empty beer cans scattered by the foot of the tree. The inner image of Romain having a smoke right here, his own shoes on the exact spot, begins to terrorize him. _I can't..._ He tries to block out the rising dread, but it's here and it stays with claws and malice to his mind and heart. _It just can't be real!_ Doubt detonates sprouts into the dark purple storm, sharpest green, ejecting a crystal-clear sense of realization; he mistook someone else for Romain. Romain would never. Romain isn't the one. Romain doesn't have a reason to. His friend lives, that is certain, but not on the streets of Nice. Not him. Too much money on his Swiss bank account. 

Charles walks away without a goal nor a brilliant plan on his mind. He just walks. Trampling down the sad and half-dying grass selfishly and heads for the big pond, departs in the right direction onto the pathway where he quickly avoids a small group of frolicking kids whose laughter and happiness weighs down on his mind like a solid thing. His round Ray-Bans and white cap saves him time and time again from getting completely recognized as he wanders briskly further into the park. He thinks of going back home, but dismisses the idea, feeling bad over the incident with Alexis earlier and then Pierre jabbing a knife into his confidence, twisting it a little for the added affect. It truly feels like Pierre, at times, views him as this someone who's incapable of taking instructions and adapt them and be honest and God forbid if he "ignores" to return his calls or text messages during a hectic day at work. 

_Write him a letter _, he thinks silently, finding himself a lonesome wooden bench on a hill near a small pond and sits down with his eyes glued on two white swans chasing each other in the dark water. For some time, he lets their quarrel distract him and it creates an empty space between him and his troubles. At length, the savage splash and splosh, quacking and feather tornado stop and the low murmuring of visitors is all that is left above the faint noise of a busy city toiling through the day. Doubts and frustration return and claims a home inside of him. He takes his phone out of his pocket, puts the music on pause and opens up a new email. Dearest Pierre? To the love of my life? Pierre, you fucking apathetic asshole! He moves his right foot up to rest it on the other leg and begins to type his letter: 'To my oppressive, handsome husband: There are many things I'd like to say to you. . . . . . ' 

After a short time, filling the screen with angry sentences, he stops abruptly. His heart and thoughts race, bleeding together in a cacophony of _how, how, how? How is this going to help?_ He shuts his eyes slowly toward the sky and considers his emotions and motivations. Suddenly the seat under him makes a strange movement. He hears clothes kneading against the wood, a clearing of a man's throat, feels the presence right beside him and curses inwardly. _Of course_. A thick intake of breath and he gets up from the bench, opens his eyes. 

"Heeey Charles, why are you leaving already?" The man on the bench speaks in English with a German-like accent. 

Charles turns and sees Nico Hülkenberg looking back up at him. Of all people in this city—of all drivers—this isn't the preferred one. Apart from a knucklehead on track, like seventy percent of the field as well, this man has always had a peculiar knack of disparaging people's experiences, their feelings alike. Their short and hasty greets otherwise never led to anything beyond that. Nico coming up to him now sorely is questionable, and Charles decides he's curious enough to see where this is going. So here we go then. 

He forcefully pushes all the roaring purple back into a corner and offers Nico a brotherly handshake. "Sorry Nico. I didn't see it was you. Congrats on your birthday." 

"Thirty-five and still young enough to wear sneakers," Nico says, his face completely straight as he gestures at his elegant, desert brown dress shoes. 

"Oh, they are aggressive," Charles says jokingly and sits down on the bench, feeling the edges of his sunglasses line his smiling cheeks. A pause of silence interrupts what could have been a real chance for a decent small talk as Nico looks the other way and Charles, expecting him to pick up the ball, begins to read through his potential gaslighting letter. He already knows he's not going to stand a chance to save anything if Pierre misses the point, intentionally or the other, when reading this. 

  
"Are you busy?" Nico finally says something.   


"It's just an email, but nothing urgent." Charles instantly shuts off the screen and puts his phone away. "So, the park? Anything special?" 

Wrinkling his nose, Nico gives him a shrug. "What about you?" 

"No, nothing special.” 

"What do you know..." 

Silence. Some more silence. It seems like eons pass by. Charles debates inwardly what he should say next or if leaving was a better option. 

"How's your family doing?" Again, it's Nico who breaks the awkwardness. 

"All good," Charles hurries to answer. 

"Pierre the Desperate housewife keeps it all together?" 

There’s a slight grin flexing at Charles lips. “Yeah... But he’s never desperate about it. He’s most of the time very calm and collected. Never runs out of patience about anything really. And a fantastic dad too.” 

Nico smiles too. "He has come a long way then since I last met him. I remember some used to say he was just icing no cake. The drama queen of the grid..." 

"I think you're confusing him with Grosjean." Charles says this as a fact, though, feels amused about the icing no cake part. Some of the shit they say about each other... 

"Oh yeah, that's true. How long has it been since he...?" 

"Two years, more or less," Charles says slowly. He sees the indifferent expression on Nico's face, realizing he's probably not concerned about Romain at all. 

"That's plenty of time to recover from the supposed injury," Nico says then, surprisingly, and inhales deeply. "I—I think it's bullshit. The whole... It's a conspiracy cluster. I don't mean to sound discouraging, but the most realistic explanation is that he suffered from a terminal illness and put all his money to cover it up, then died some place no one would think of." 

"I think I actually saw him here yesterday," Charles reveals, trying to believe in his own words, trying to ignore Nico's brutal point of view. 

Nico's face stretches out in surprise. "What?" 

"I saw Romain, here, hanging out with some homeless people." 

"Homeless? Seriously?" Nico cloaks his face with skepticism, looking straight at him for a second, then something dawns on him—eyebrows rising much like two slices of lime in a glass under re-fill. "I wasn't expecting to hear that. So, what happened next?" " 

"Nothing." Charles says. "When he noticed me and Pierre he turned and walked away. Didn't see him again." 

"You didn't follow?" Nico stares astounded. 

"No. I'm thinking he might show up again that's basically why I'm here." 

"What the hell is going on?" Nico mutters to no one in particular. "How can he be here without media picking up on it?" 

"I don’t know. I think, maybe they don’t recognize him anymore," Charles says. "Like, he's a lot skinnier, his jeans looked like he hadn’t changed them for two whole years and he wore a simple black wind jacket with the hood up so it was hard to see all of his face. But it was his nose and he walked just like I remember him walking.”   
  
“I believe it if you say so.”   
  
  
“Anyway, he was also smoking a cigarette or something when I saw him,” Charles adds. “So, whatever happened to him, it’s easy to think he’s given up on life.” 

"That's really weird," Nico half whispers and scratches his cheek, nails scrubbing against tiny beard stubs.   
  
  
“Yeah,” Charles agrees. “I honestly feel really bad about it.” 

They both turn silent again, but it seems as if they mutually agree on it this time. Charles mind wanders off into a room where he stores fading memories of the race at Silverstone 2020. He browses through them like they were pages in a book, looking for anything he could call a detail of importance. Romain joining him and Pierre for a short walk between the paddock and the trailers. Pointless chitchatting passing between them. Night fall. British flags flapping loudly in hail storm. Watching Pierre leave with Max Verstappen and Nyck de Vries toward the Red Bull station at break of dawn, a wave and a heart sign as their good byes. Romain talking on his phone, burying his forehead in his hand, hunched on a small stool outside the back entrance to Haas's garage. A few hours later, all signs of Romain's existence were gone, erased, apart from his personal sign hanging above his garage in the pits, but it had been taken down for good on Saturday morning and replaced with a sign for Stoffel 'Waffel' Vandoorne. Stoff got himself a seat at Haas from that weekend on, and still sits as their second driver today alongside Nico here—but that's beside the point. 

_Where is Romain?_ Charles can't resist to bring out his phone again. He taps open his contact list and looks up Romain's number. It sits between the number to Pierre and the number to one of his closest friends. He lightly brushes his thumb over Romain's contact picture. It burns. This feeling. 

"Do you miss him much?" Nico asks unexpectantly. 

"Romain?" Charles checks and Nico gives him a confirming nod. "Yes, I mean, of course. He's a good friend of mine so it's impossible to not miss him." 

"Have you tried to call him?" 

Charles looks at him, looks down on his deactivated phone. He obviously saw Romain's name. He closes his hand around his phone without responding. "It's a nice place up here," he improvises, crossing his arms, trying to move away from the other subject. 

"Mm, this is where I would bring my kids to feed the ducks." Nico crosses his arms as well, probably going along with the change of subject. When Nico then looks at him, he grins like he had just told him the silliest of jokes, like he knew what was up. "Well," he begins over and Charles can't look at him anymore. "I guess it's a sensitive topic. We don't have to talk about Romain. I'm just wondering, did you ever try to call him after he disappeared?"   
  


Charles can't answer him at first, all too afraid he'll say something that will damage his image as a someone who moved on long ago. The fact is, he used to call Romain every single day for two months after Silverstone. Then twice every week for another five months, always prepared to be met by a dead tone, or complete silence. Now, two years moving on, his monthly calls still get through. There is just no one picking up on the other end. 

"Yeah, once on Monday after the race and then I tried to call him about three weeks later," he lies. 

"Well, if you should hold on to that number long enough, the chances are it will be his ghost who picks up one day," Nico says and there's something profound about the way he says it that makes Charles feel exactly like the idiot he didn't want to. 

"I completely understand he changed his number, it's the reality or else he would have answered my calls back then." 

Nico looks out over the park. "I was just asking because if the guy you saw is really Romain..." And then back at him. 

"It's hard to believe, but I hope it's him." 

"If I'm truly honest, I think you got to head out there and ask if anyone else has seen him to make any progress," Nico tells him, like it really didn’t matter to him what the hell he did from here. 

"The thing is... I saw him with a group of homeless and I don't see them anywhere today," Charles says softly, watching an old man with a walker pick up pieces of bread from a small carton box that he tosses into the pond. A group of quacking ducks and the swan pair fights over them passively. The old man chuckles. 

"They can be... Perhaps at the train station. Try there?" Nico looks at him like he's totally dense. 

"I rather not. It's too busy this late," Charles points out. " I also don't want to cause a commotion." 

"What about shelters? Soup kitchens?" 

"Oh, I didn't think of that. Could be worth a try...If..." Charles trails off as he opens up Google and types in 'homeless shelters Nice' into the search bar. 

"I have a little over an hour," Nico let's him know for some reason. It forces him to look up from his phone and Nico sits there with that simper smile of his, opens his mouth, "we can check the closest shelter together, if you like?" 

Charles stares at him, unprepared as it happens. "Yeah, sure. There's just one..." He quickly looks up their destination in Google Maps. "Eight minutes of walking distance." 

"Okay." Nico stands. "Suppose we can drive there." 

"Yeah. I have my car parked outside the main entrance," Charles says, standing up from the bench slowly, adjusting his cap that didn’t need adjusting. 

"Mine is parked way down by the port." Nico says this with a look of concern, apparently asking for a ride, apparently driving a rental car. Most likely a car he doesn't want to be seen driving in front of another F1 driver. A Renault Megane cab comes to Charles mind. 

"No problemas. There's plenty of room in my Ferrari," Charles lets him know. So cool. So collected.   
Then he starts walking calmly towards the parking lot. Nico joins his side, both incognito behind dark, posh sunglasses. Their caps casting shadows over their faces as they pass other guests by, going somewhere. Then Charles spots a skinny fellow hanging out on his own outside the public restroom ahead. He wears baggy clothing, every piece dirty and worn, his brown short locks a mess. When Charles was younger, his dad always forbade him to go anywhere near these restrooms. '_It's a place for smelly cats'_, he used to say, scrunching up his face and shooed Charles the way a farmer shoos an errant goose from his doorway. His angel dad, a secret fan of the TV series Friends, probably wished he could stop him now as he catches Nico's attention with a slight nudge to his shoulder. 

"See the guy over there by the restroom with the purple jacket?" He gives Nico a look that he fires off discreetly at the 'smelly cat' person. 

"Mm." Nico stops and asks closely, "what are you saying?" 

"I don't remember seeing him in Romain's group, but he definitely looks homeless." 

"He's attempting a bit of begging, isn't he?" 

"No. I think he's waiting to use the bathroom." 

Nico shrugs. "Are you moving in?" 

"Yeah, I think it's worth asking." 

"Got a picture of Romain we can show him? I never got to be on photo basis with him," Nico says, like he doesn't know why that is or how to google a picture even. 

"Yeah, no problem. I'll take care of it." Charles brings out his phone and finds hundreds of pictures within three seconds on Google. He has photos of Romain stored on his phone, taken years ago, but to show them to a stranger on the street feels completely inappropriate and disrespectful to his friend. 

"Excuse us!" Nico calls out, and not only do they get their targets attention, but the family, the couple and the group of tourists nearby gets pulled in too. "You with the purple jacket," Nico adds, just to clear things out. Half of their audience goes on with their day, unaware. Formula One might not even exist to them. The rest whispers, smiles—all too aware 

"Go gentle, go gentle!" The man with the purple jacket begs them in a broken, punchy French accent as they close in on him, his hands poises defensively at them. The intense fearful look on his face and his trembling hands makes Charles stop short. About a step from him, one step closer to the man, Nico stands with his watch-carrying hand in pant pocket. 

"It's okay, we're not going to hurt you," Nico says slowly, his voice warmer than usual. "We're just wondering if you've come across a friend of ours. Romain Grosjean." 

"Wh-who?" The man looks confused. His sunken, bewildered and red splashed eyes lands on Charles. 

"Romain Grosjean,” Charles repeats. “He’s missing. So, if you can look at his picture and see maybe you recognize him, yes?” He calmly activates his screen, takes a step closer and holds it up for the man to look at the photo of Romain he's chosen; melancholy, looking into the distance from shoulders and up, dressed in a casual dark blue shirt, no wind stirring up his short hair. 

"Is he a pimp or something?" The man's reaction makes Charles blink in surprise. 

"Why you'd ask that?" Nico questions quickly. 

"He has a fancy shirt." 

"Yeah, just not everyone with fancy shirts have dirty jobs," Charles explains with a half-shrug. "Romain likes to wear clothes like this." 

"I'm not gonna lie, that's pretty fucking hot," the man says. "Explain why is you looking for him?" 

Charles parts his lips, but Nico beats him, "his wife in Switzerland is dying." 

The expression of total blankness sprays its presence all over Charles otherwise clear mind. Then . . . those three words swirled into that blank space. . .Wife. Switzerland. Dying. 

"Oh. That is proper sad," the man says with emotion. 

Charles opens his mouth but nothing comes out. 

"She doesn't have much time left. Both she and their two kids really need him back home," Nico goes on, and it's out of control, and Charles instantly wants to duct tape his mouth and lock him inside a coffin and then toss him into the raging flood of the Canadian falls. With no incline of doubt, Nico continues," it would be great if you could help us. Maybe take a second look at his picture?" 

  
Charles can feel his brow crease in frustration. "I'm quite confu— " 

"Oh wait, this guy wears Rolex," the man suddenly says and does it in a way you'd think he is celebrating. He looks up from the picture on the screen and meets gaze with Charles. "I seen him! Does he not wear Rolex?" 

Charles is stunned, turns his phone around to look for any sign of a Rolex within the picture and there's none. Nico looks at him, looking for an answer as well it appears. 

  
"Does he not wear Rolex!?" Insist the man louder. 

  
Charles has seen one. One in silver and gold, Sea-Something, that Romain carried on his wrist back in 2019. Going into 2020 and it’s all a blur. "It’s difficult to know, but he used to wear one,” he says, shoving his phone into his pocket. “When did you see him?" 

  
"Last night." 

"Where?" 

"There," the man points in the direction of the place Romain stood yesterday, but also at the cluster of trees in the background, and at the crowded basket court, and the everything that lay beyond all of it. 

"Exactly what place is that?" Nico asks. 

"The only place a man like me gets shelter, bro!"   
  


It must be a horrible confusion, because Nico actually looks perplexed. "Could you narrow that down for me?" 

"Oh typical," the man says. "You don't recognize what I'm talking about, do you?" 

"Is it in the trees?" Attempts Nico with a mocking tone. "In the basketball hoop?" 

It takes Charles a minute to realize the man is talking about a homeless shelter. He tries to interrupt their conversation, but the man in the purple jacket negates his presence as if he wasn't even there. 

  
"Listen brotha," says the man coolly, staggering a step closer to Nico. "How old is you?" 

"Old enough to become a Jedi master," Nico suggests, cool and nonchalant as ever. "What is it to you?" 

  
  
"Aight, that is not old if you think a homeless can sleep where ever he likes." 

  
  
Charles tries to interfere again, as unsuspiciously as he can and a tad bit louder. "Oh, you mean you saw our friend at a homeless shelter?" 

  
  
"Oh, I'm mildly impressed you got it right," the man says, now looking decently happier and Charles makes sure he smiles back. "But I warn you'is not a nice place. You definitely don't wanna bring your pretty watches in there. Some crazy fuckers might try an'rob you." 

Charles can hear Nico huff amusingly, but nothing feels funny. Only worrying and aggravating. 

"Yo! Does not disrespect me like that!" The man raps suddenly at Nico, obviously just as annoyed with his attitude as Charles, but doesn't shy the confrontation. 

By passers gives the trio looks of concerns and curiosity. A topless young man in black knee-long shorts stops and brings up his phone. It looks like he's aiming the camera lens at them. Charles feels utterly uncomfortable as the center of the spotlight has turned directly on them now and Nico, for whatever reason, doesn't acknowledge any of it. He checks the hands on his watch and buries his teeth into the flesh of his bottom lip. Then Nico speaks, provokes the man further, thrusting words into the air and the man pushes him back, right in the chest. _ Arrgh _ _ , why is this happening! _ Charles squeezes in-between instantly, he barely remembers moving at all, but finds himself successfully defusing the clash with Nico's heaving, furious chest bumping against his shoulder blades. 

"I got a knife," the man declares and Charles can feel Nico's body withdraw from his that second. The man doesn't shy away, his mouth punches untiringly, "and I'll use it if you go off on me like that again, bro!"   


"It's fine, calm down," Charles tells him in French. "Look... I appreciate your help mister...?" 

  
"You should call me Vic D," the man yaps back in perfect French, hitting the right keys in Wanna-Be gangster style as he gets up in Charles face. "What do I call you?" 

  
"Charles." He wraps his right hand around his Hublot watch instinctively below. The purple jacket brushes against his skin, it prickles, and the man breath stinks like a sewer. 

  
"That is a sick name. Are you from like Switzerland or something?" 

  
"No, I'm from Monaco," Charles replies with calmness that he forced out of somewhere. 

  
"Monaco... Sorry to hear that." The man wobbles as he retreats one—single—step—at a time, puts his hands into his jacket's pockets and turns around. "Yo! Has anyone seen Romain Grosjean!?" He lets out over the lightly crowded area as he pines on, soon lighting a cigarette between his lips. No one answers him. No one knows. Charles lets go off his watch and breathes out. 

  
"Good job, Charles," Nico says quietly beside him, but Charles doesn't want his praise. He wants to question him against a fucking wall. He wants answers. He wants to know if it's true that Romain's wife is dying, and if it is, then why does Nico let it all out there? Who told him? How can he use Romain's family like this whether it's true or not? More so does he want Nico to understand this is not okay; what kind of a person are you? 

There's a slow oncoming wave of murmurs from the visitors around them, now barely beginning to disperse the way a herd of ogling cows tour away from some magnetic main attraction. Then, a short applaud from the guy in black shorts. Charles finds himself, for once, wishing that he could turn himself invincible, that he was the least interesting person in the world, that he was someone else, but look how far he made it; look how they all smile now. An older man comes up with a bright greeting, stretches out his hand with kind compliments rolling off his tongue, and all Charles want is to deny him that handshake. Deny him an autograph. Deny him a selfie. He reluctantly grabs his hand. It's rough as sandpaper, it's greased with qualm. He lets go before the man does, slowly brushing the damp feeling off from his palm against his jeans. Then the man brings up his phone, puts himself next to him. Snap. _ Instafied _. 

  
"I can't thank you enough," the man says delightfully in French, the corners of his mouth almost stretch back to his ears as he smiles. "I hope you don't fall into some bad luck in upcoming races. It'd be such a shame if you lost the lead now when it's been going so well for you. " 

  
"Yeah, definitely, but there's only a half of season left and I'll be giving my all to extend it further," Charles assures. He pretends this is one of those very random interviews that always seem to pop out of the ground like a near-sighted mole when he hurries through the paddocks. 

  
The man chuckles. "It's great to hear! My whole family and I are all hoping to see you win the title this year, like all of us here in Monaco, of course." He goes silent for a beat, eyebrows scrunching thoughtfully and then with a grave tone he says, "thank you and stay safe." 

  
Charles gets a soft squeeze to his left arm. Just smile, say thanks, be cool and approachable. He swallows with a slow, brief exhale, watching the man step over to Nico, praising him as well as getting another picture. Next, he sees the couple across the path jolt towards him like happy collies and the black shorts-guy lazily follows. Cautiously, he looks over his shoulder, adjusting his cap just to give his nervous hands something to do while this little mob of fans approaches and lines up. Nico Hülkenberg looks at him like he knows just as well as he does that this could essentially be the quiescent before a tsunami. 

On their walk to the parking lot, it is a corridor with visitors clogging up the path to the main entrance's pompous castle-like archway as Charles and Nico walk toward it. They are out of options. Charles gets pens and writable surfaces handed to him from fans, friends to fans and parents to invisible kids wanting his autograph, every other ten step he takes. He gets a peck on his cheek from a sun hat wearing girl, and snickers erupt from the group of teenagers watching their friend take liberties. The sun disappears behind a lizard shaped cloud. And walk again. Write autographs again. Smile again. 


	5. Imperceptible indications

They arrive at Charles’s Ferrari in the parking lot much later than they planned to. There's a buzz of light chatter behind them. It’s good. People are curious and will speculate, it creates rumors on social media and they are all probably asking the same question right now: why is Hülkenberg and Leclerc getting into the same car? Mid-season and silly season are winking at them from the gates. Soon it's going to swallow them. There will be journalists parading around the circuits playing detectives. There will be loud discussions between drivers, engineers and team bosses and a short sigh from David Coulthard who just wants to see the day through with his camera team in the pit lane. There will be best wishes and stiff press-conferences and memes far into December. Fortunately, Charles had already secured another year with Ferrari and could watch all of that unfold from the sidelines. 

  
He gets inside his Ferrari and shuts the door close as Nico buckles his seat belt in the passenger seat, and then Charles notices him look into the cramped backseat. He knows about the minor chaos back there; plushies, children books, toys, extra clothes to Alexis, his own pair of Prada dress shoes—all tossed in a heap on both seats. And then all the empty Red Bull cans thrown on the floor back there. Pierre always promises he'll bring his empty cans with him after borrowing the car, but uses the backseat floor as a trash can instead. He never delivers, doesn't care, and Charles withstands. It's a stupid thing to argue over when he just as well can throw away the cans himself. They bother him, not Pierre, after all. 

  
"Welcome Charles," says a sensual female voice slowly in Italian, coming from the speakers. Yes, his new Ferrari talks to him and he doesn't have to do anything as it runs an automatic face recognition the moment he sits down. Then his seat slides forward slightly, very automatically, as Nico shifts in his own seat, adjusting it manually. There's a deep void of silence filling up the car, but the outside world barely finds a way inside. Charles could never have imagined he would be in his own private car with Nico Hülkenberg as the only passenger. And it doesn't feel good. He finds himself evaluating every detail of the situation: Nico, himself, the small space between them, the way the steering wheel feels hard against his hands, and everything smells like Red Bull, the sound of Nico's quiet 'hm', the colorful map showing on the GPS screen, his right foot slightly touching the gas pedal. He waits for Nico to speak, but he doesn't. He parts his lips and feels frustration tighten its knot around his heart. He tells himself to calm down. He tells himself to forget about his anger. The sliver of calmness pushing the purple back buckles when he realizes he can't. 

  
"So," he begins firmly. "What you said about Romain's wife—" 

Nico interrupts him, "Just to be clear, my int—" 

"You lied, no?" He asks, not letting him through this time. 

"I guess so... I mean... " Nico removes his sunglasses from his mildly bothered face. "I thought it was obvious." 

"It wasn't," Charles lets him know earnestly and breaks eye contact as he pulls off his sunglasses too. "I was told Romain's wife didn't want us in the Formula One community to contact her, so I stayed focused on looking for answers in his team, but it didn't get me very far obviously." He brings out his phone and transfers the shelter's destination information over to the GPS as he continues, "I got honestly worried you knew something I didn't. Even if you didn't hang out with Romain like I was, it doesn't mean you don't have friends within his family, or in my opinion at least. I have a good friend in another driver's family, so... And we're not friends, me and the other driver." 

  
Nico hums in response—Just an indifferent, invalidating hum. 

His non-answer ignites a tiny fire in Charles's rib cage. "So, did you talk to his family?" He asks, putting the car into reverse and pulls out of the parking space effortlessly. 

  
"Really?" Nico pauses, waiting for him to tell him this is just a joke, waiting for him to get a grip on himself. After it becomes clear he's not going to, Nico adds, "I'm genuinely sorry if I gave you the impression that I have, but I haven't. Not even on Instagram. I can't even remember his wife's name."   
  
  
"Okay, you apologized at least," Charles says and doubtlessly increases pressure on the throttle and steers out on the peaceful street and instantly catches up with a black Chevrolet ahead doing nearly 65 km/h. The sign says 50, so Charles eases down and they begin to fall behind comfortably. Other than the rowdy engine thriving happily on fuel, not much else sounds and Charles finds it disturbing. Partially because, again, just too much silence, but mostly because he is still mad and he can't keep it to himself. 

"But." He pauses. "But it's very disrespectful to tell lies about her." 

"I agree," Nico says, seeming to be honest. "I shouldn't have done it, but I really wanted the guy to understand he was pushing his luck by complimenting Romain in the way he did."   


No way in the nine circles of hell. No way is Nico Hülkenberg this stupid. Charles exhales a sharp puff of air out his mouth. 

"HOW the hell di—" 

"You don't think it was wrong of him?" Nico cuts him off right away. 

"Oooh my God," Charles breathes out, his voice a speckle in space. "I don't know." He gives up. Throws the towel, but it takes only a second and the gears are turning again with full combat force in his head. There's a stranger out there who thinks Romain's wife is going to die and if that information spreads and gets picked up by a stupid journalist—Charles doesn't dare inviting that thought into his head space, but something like what happened with the people who started the rumor about Michael Schumacher's death a year ago. 

"Maybe we can turn some music on?" Nico suggests. 

" I can't, I can't..." Charles hears himself repeat like a broken record. Stop, he commands his brain. It can't quite stop, but it slows down for him to try to get a grip over himself. 

"Okay buddy. Understood." Nico withdraws himself away from the drama, but he can’t leave the car. He has to stay. 

"...Fucking stupid!" Charles would have yelled the words if he'd been alone. 

"What’s the matter?" Nico asks, looking at him like he's the kid who just threw his first tantrum ever. 

"I should have told the guy it was just a joke." Charles feels regret collapse in his guts like a skyscraper. "Fuck... I'm so stupid." 

“That guy couldn’t care less,” Nico says flatly, but then adds, “however, Romain’s Rolex might be in danger.”   


The way he says it, you’d think Romain’s Rolex had the power to save humanity. It’s a watch. It goes tick, tick, tick. The world will live to die another day even if his watch goes missing or gets stolen. The thought of someone drawing a weapon to rob it off Romain is what suddenly grabs Charles like a snake around his throat. He recalls getting taken back at the mention, but didn’t consider how the man in the purple jacket knew about Romain’s Rolex, just that it meant he had seen Romain. He’s so stupid. He clutches his right hand over his Hublot, slowing down in front of a pedestrian crossing. Several people in all shapes and sizes scurries across the street.   
  
  
“Romain maybe tried to sell it to him for money or food, who knows,” Charles debates, and more so with himself than with Nico. “Someone should tell the guy it was a joke. I’m serious.”   


Nico slams his arm down on the armrest, all exasperated, like it’s such a big project to talk to him. “I think it’s a fantastic idea, but I’m not signing up for it.” He goes silent for a moment, then continues, “are we going to the shelter? Otherwise you need to drop me off because I don't want to be late to my party." 

First of all, Charles takes a deep breath and decides he's calm. Dowse.The.Fire. And breath normally. He reads the sign coming up:' <— Port Lympia'. It should be where Nico parked his car. Nico doesn’t want to be here with him, it’s obvious. But he misses the turn. Everything swishes by, every opportunity to drop him off. When they reach a busy intersection going places but not back, Charles must admit he has made his choice to bring him with him and that without understanding how it happened. 

"Soooooooooooooooooooooooo..." He drags it out throughout the whole turn in the intersection. "Yes," he adds with finality after entering a new street, "let's check the shelter out and then I drive you back to the port, yes?"   
  
  
"For a second there I thought you'd kick me out," Nico admits with a smile on his voice. 

  
"Yeah, me too actually," Charles says and laughs quietly out of awkwardness. A pause as he drives over a bump, then it comes out of nowhere—this urge—scratching at his vocal cord and he blurts out, "why do you wanna come with me?" 

  
"I was being polite, but it turns out this is a bit more exciting than doing laps in the park. " 

  
"Yeah, this is like a real detective movie," Charles says optimistically, in spite of his churning worry. "Called..." He searches for a name. "Where is Romain Grosjean?" He says in French, then switches back to English, "...The silence of Haas...I don't know" 

  
Nico then speaks something in German. None of the words, except for Grosjean, makes any sense to Charles, but he smiles anyway as they pass the last building on their left and the beautiful sea greets them with an endless glimmer alongside of the road. 

* * *

The last fifty meters, coming toward their destination on route, Charles lifts off and his car slows down into a creeping—barely going forward, still not backwards yet—Scanning the buildings to his left in anticipation. He had never come across a homeless shelter before, that he knows of, and isn't sure what he's looking for exactly. A sign? A big, blue sign with white letters saying: 'Free beds for homeless!'?_ No, no, no. _ He leans forward and looks out and up on one of the many, grand, quaint and picturesque apartment buildings. A few windows with window shutters are covered in brown carton board. He sits back in his comfy seat and gives his Ferrari a little more gas. The engine's roar expands between the buildings, the parked cars, vibrates under him, and Nico dares him to give the pedal more force. Charles resists without denying he's tempted. Then all of the sudden there’s a person showing up, behind an old Mazda. Off the first glimpse, Charles sees a man balled up in a sitting position against a wall close to a closed gate, having his black hood up and head tilted down against his knees like someone who can't bear to face the world anymore. A terrible cold shiver stuns Charles as he watches this figure. Is that Romain? Can it be? Don't be stupid. 

"I guess we’ve found the place," Nico says. 

Charles feels like he's gone off to somewhere else, like he's just sort of slipped into this other realm. A world that's a lot like the real world, except slightly slower. This alternate reality where the hooded man by the gate turns his head up and Romain's face stares back at him. 

"There's an empty parking space coming up to your right," Nico informs him. "Do you want me to check if the shelter is open?" 

"I..." Charles starts to say. Who hides under that hoodie, can this be any more agitating? 

"Okay, be right back." A seat belt clicks. A door opens. 

Charles stops the car and tries to unbuckle himself without looking like everything is blasting away from him. He pulls the handbrake so the car won't roll away down the street and make people wonder. He puts on his sunglasses. Takes a quick look at the hooded man. And as he looks at Nico, watching him gently close the door from the outside—_ wumpth _—he knows somehow if he looks now, the hooded man will be looking back. 

"Excuse me!" Nico's voice makes its way inside from the street. 

Charles closes his eyes as he slowly turns his head around, tightens his hold on the door handle and feels like an idiot. He's so stupid he feels embarrassed on his own behalf. Who can in their right mind allow themselves to be this naive? The door abruptly tears away from his hand, making him flinch in his seat, his eyes flutters open and he stares up at Nico looking back at him. 

"The guy by the gate says he met a man called Romain last night,” Nico throws at his face. 

First thing Charles wants to do is shut the door and drive off, disappointment blistering in his throat over that it wasn't Romain by the gate, then and not a second later he feels hopeful again. He gets out of his car and spots the stranger on the sidewalk, now having his head tilted against the wall instead. There's a wild bush of beard growing out of his wolfish, sagging face. 

"Is it open?" Charles asks Nico, leaving his Ferrari in the middle of the street like any true Monegasque in Nice would. There is enough space for other cars. At least some cars. Like the little Italian ones in Rome. Nico's brutal answer is that the shelter won't open until 18:00, which is little less than three hours away. Charles knows he shouldn't even consider to miss the striking of 17:15 when his mom passes over the care of Alexis to Pierre at home, yet he considers it. He would text and ask Pierre if it's possible to arrive later, but a gnawing claw in his gut tells him Pierre will get upset over it and that's not where he wants him to be. 

Both he and Nico stop right before where the sidewalk levels up from the street, everything here baths in warm shadows. The bearded man greets them silently with a nod, his eyelids drooping halfway over his brown tired eyes when looking up at them. Charles starts to explain to him in French who's looking for and why. He also shows him the picture of Romain from Google. 

"Yes,yes,yes,yes," the man repeats in French, his voice hoarse like a seasoned smoker. “This is the guy. This is him all right. Yes." He hands the phone back to Charles and brushes his hands together. "Anything else I can help with?" 

Charles gathers himself up from falling into a mental pool of relief and says, "ahh yes, this is fantastic to hear! Where did you see him? Was it inside the shelter?" He points at the gate he believes leads to the shelter. The pointing seems to confuses Nico who walks up to the gate to peek inside. 

"No, no, over there! At the bar. He bought me a beer." The man points in the direction of across the street but further down as Nico checks the door handle profusely, making the street echo with metal-rattling. The man strikes the ground with his palm and bellows hotly in English, “KNOCK IT OFF!” 

  
“Yep. Sorry.” Nico instantly stops and steps back from the gate. He turns to Charles with a composed look slowly turning thoughtful, looking like he’s silently trying to figure him out. It feels out of place, like out of the blue, almost rivals-in-the-pit-lane kind of stare. 

  
“Did Romain drink as well?” Charles asks the bearded man then, still phrasing his sentences in French.   
  
  
“Yes, yes, yes, he drank himself under the table, my word! He drank two strong ones and had three shots, then he said...I can’t tell you how good this feels! Drank some more, talked and talked and talked, that man sure had some stories to tell!” The man chuckles. 

Charles turns to Nico, feeling concerned. “He says that Romain was drinking at a bar on this street last night with him,” he translates and then turns back to the older man on the sidewalk and asks, “did Romain say anything about where he was headed or where he came from?”   
  
  
The man gives him a dismissive wave of his hand. “He mentioned so many different places it’d be a miracle if anyone remembers!” He bows his head for a minute, then lifts his chin to the sky, “I distinctively remember him saying he wants to see the glittering lights of Monaco one last time.” He huffs a chuckle, shaking his head slowly and starts to get up from the ground, his knees cracking, “now tell me boys, can this weak old man ask for a ride to the park? It’s not too far now is it?”   
  
  
This request surprises Charles, knocks him out of wondering-about-Romain land with a snap. Letting this man inside his Ferrari? The thought of it, truthfully, is bizarre compared to riding along with Nico Hülkenberg and Red Bull cans, and Red Bull cans, and Red Bull cans.   
  
  
“No, we’re heading the other direction so..., it’s not possible, but I can call you a cab to the park, if you like?” He offers kindly. He can pay for it as well. Show him he’s thankful for his help.   
  
  
The man accepts his offer and offers Charles a handshake in return. There’s no hesitation in Charles, he shakes his hand and calls him a cab. All while Nico waits by his side, checking his phone, scraping his shoe against the ground, clearing throat. Waiting. Waiting. Impatient waiting. Charles watches Nico watching him, and he thinks maybe Nico believes in him now. He shoves his phone into his pocket, puts his right hand in his other pocket, and raises his left hand at the bearded man in a farewell. 

“If you run into him again, tell him Charles number sixteen is looking for him.”   
  
  
“Absolutely!” The man waves them off as he begins to walk down the street toward the bar where the cab will soon pick him up.   
  
  
“Wait!” Charles calls out. The man stops, turns and Charles hesitates at first. “Did... Did you see if Romain wore a watch?”   
  
  
The man flaps his arms in a shrug. “He had no watch that I saw, but he had a pretty golden ring on his left...” He holds up his left hand and wiggles his ring finger, smiling.   
  
  
Charles feels how his mind throws itself like a ping pong ball between two camps: Hope and doubt—He burns. He freezes. Nothing about a wedding ring indicates anything. There was no Rolex. But who else but Romain can it be? If two witnesses saw him. Who else?   
  
  
  
The drive to the port takes just over six minutes and five of them consists of exceptional silence between Charles and Nico, and one minute of them having a peaceful discussion about Charles racing incident with Seb Vettel a month ago. It was his first time at taking Seb out in a race. Stupidly blinded by a glare, he didn’t see his team mate’s car diving on his inside around a corner and they smacked together like crashing cymbals. One of the worst moments in his career so far, and Nico agrees with him, not because he blames him, but because he’s been in the same place and he gets that hot sinking feeling.   
Down by the port, Nico gets a chance to point out the car he’s driving; a black BMW i8 parked in front of a vivid scene of sail boats lazily bobbing together in the marina. There is a German number plate. Not a rental car. There is no attempt at boasting or sarcasm from Nico at this point; he recognizes they are equally tired of each other and short on time. 

“Tell Pierre I said hello,” Nico says before they part.   
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
On his way back to Monte-Carlo, Charles winds his memory back over and over to the that moment in their living room when Pierre reprimanded him for letting Alexis have his own way. It can’t be that simple, can it? If he would start bulldozing over Alexis wills and needs like that, wouldn’t it be some kind of abuse? Just take him and go. Just take him and go. It’s that simple! The boy is kicking and slapping and cursing and crying, but just throw him over one shoulder and leave—problem solved. Charles knocks at the plastic armrest console with his knuckles, thinking, wondering some more, and remembers how easy life used to be before Alexis and how strangely stressful life has become after. His phone vibrates in his pocket coming out of a tunnel, but he waits to check it until he’s stopped outside their apartment house.   
  
  
**Pierre:** I really like this guy but idk how to tell him   
  
  
Charles texts back: Just ask him to the Coldplay concert next weekend   
  
  
He pokes his phone down into his pocket, reaches into the backseat and gathers every single Reb Bull he can find. His phone vibrates again. Pierre, he guesses with a small smile, grabs a bag that he throws the cans into and then he leaves the car to head inside. In the elevator he digs up his phone hopeful Pierre will ask him to the concert; He’s the guy Pierre likes.   
  
  
**Pierre**: What should I say?   
  
  
**Charles**: I’m home in 15 sec, start thinking <3   
  
  
He looks up at the display above the elevator door, watching number 5 warp into 6 into 7. . . His phone vibrates in his hand again.   
  
  
**Pierre**: What?   
  
  
**Pierre**: Wait!!   
  
  
Charles laughs and imagines Pierre’s panic this precise moment, but he wonders if it’s real or fake.   
He writes: 7 sec left   


The elevator plings and the doors slide open before him. He keeps his phone in his hand as he steps out in the low-lit corridor, his dark grey sneakers turn inaudible against the soft licorice colored carpet. As he walks down to the left, checking his phone, he bumps sideways into a neighbor's tall, dark door, cans rustle, and he stumbles to the side where he stops, eyes glued to the bright screen on his phone. Maybe Pierre broke something of his and tries to cover it up? Maybe he is preparing a surprise for him? Maybe he’s somewhere else, panicking over that he’s not at home? The time shows 16:53. He made it back in time at least.   
He texts Pierre: I’m right outside   
  
  
While he waits for Pierre’s reply, he goes all the way up to their door at the end of the corridor, trying to fish up his keys out of his pocket at the same time. A light bzzzz tickles in his hand and he checks his phone.   
  
  
**Pierre**: Whatevs! I’m not at home   
  
  
_Bzzzz__!_   
  
  
**Pierre**: Me and my bro are going clubbin 2night. Will be home late   
  
  
_Bzzzz__!_

  
**Pierre**: Hug Alexis from me   
  
  
Just like that it’s like Pierre reached through the screen and stuck a needle into a big, yellow balloon inside of Charles and it goes: POP! Excitement seeps out of him through one breath. Oh, well... You know. . .   
  
  
**Charles**: Sure. Have fun   
  
  
Would their son really feel happy tonight with only Chaas there---could he really feel happy? He could. He didn’t hate him. Charles knows he can be happy if he wants to. But if he throws a tantrum that seems never-ending, there’s going to be absolutely no one he can turn to for assistance. No one’s going to be on his side. Last time they were left alone it went okay. No one died. No one got nosebleeds. Nothing broke. There were tears. At times. But he and Alexis made it through alive, both happy to see Pierre back home. It’s going to be okay.   
  
He unlocks the front door, steady steps to the kitchen where he dumps the Red Bull cans on the kitchen island. His mother is drinking coffee by the dining table. She already knows he’s going to be on his own with Alexis tonight, so she looks at him with this pitiful concern oozing of her usual you-don't-look-too-well-Charles-want-me-to-stay-until-Pierre-comes-back-home energy. A thorn to his confidence—So easy. How they all manage? He leaves to check on Alexis supposedly napping in his teal-walled bedroom. Small steps inside the dark, he flicks on the night lamp with the wall-dancing fishes and lowers down to a crouch by the crib, watching his son slowly blink his eyes open. As he comes out of his slumber, Alexis begins to make tiny, worrisome noises, drawing shuddery breaths one after another. _No, no, don’t cry..._   
  
Charles tries a smile and reaches inside two fingers, stroking his soft little arm. “Hi Champ. Do you wanna know a little secret?”   
  
  
“A seechret?” Alexis whispers back, his eyes are suddenly more awake.   
  
  
“It’s a little one, but it’s super powerful if you use it right,” Charles promises quietly.   
  
  
“Okay,” Alexis whispers even more quietly and pulls himself closer to the fence, puts his ear to it and waits. “Yes?” 

“First you go—” Charles draws some air into his lungs that he blows out his mouth the way a fart sound. Alexis turns his face to his in a complete surprise, mouth and eyes so big, and Charles snickers softly, gently starting to tickle him around his neck and watches him squeal before bursting out in a wonderful laughter. But Charles can’t be sure this sweet moment will last even for ten minutes.


	6. Seventeen backbreaking hours

At 00:46; Two things wait for Pierre at home.   
The first is the horrible sound of Alexis screaming wildly somewhere nearby. The second thing is Charles. When Pierre steps through the door, his spouse’s lean and skinny body comes around the corner and slams into his, two warm arms wrapping around him. Pierre gets knocked off balance, but Charles holds him steadily, so close and safe, they could be all means stand through a large tornado if such would appear. 

"Why is he upset? Pierre asks. 

“Don’t worry, he’s in bed." Charles manages a calm, soft voice despite quaking with turmoil within. "Just hold me, Pierre.” 

Which of course Pierre does, because the sound of Alexis screaming in his crib isn’t as alarming as having his rage explore other parts of their home. Charles rests in his hold and everything is peaceful. Everything is okay now. Pierre caresses his back in slow strokes, bumping his chin against his shoulder and smells of sweat, night-club and alcohol. Tilting his head slightly, Charles nose then mouth meets with the hot, compact thickness of muscles below Pierre’s ear. He sniffs his skin again, collecting and discovering a whole jungle of scents tangled together after a long day out in the city. He wants the world to move on and forget about their existence. He wants this a while longer. Peace. Even when Alexis’s ear-piercing scream projectiles itself into his head, he finds it—right here—nowhere else. Then Pierre’s whole rib cage expands against him and he hears that impatient exhale of his that means it’s time to let go. The soothing stroking stops and Pierre’s hands lightly presses at his sides, asking, no demanding him to step back. Charles steals an alcohol-tasting kiss before he lets go with his arms dropping to his sides, not sure what to do with them or himself.   


“I need a pit-stop.” Pierre gives him a push in his chest, separating them in the matter of a beat. 

  
Charles throws his arms out in pretend-disbelief. “Ey!”   
  
  
“Eeeeeuuuuuy,” Pierre hurls out, teasingly as he tosses his keys down on the side chair. “What kind of music are you playing in here?”   
  
  
Alexis misery howled through their bodies, but Pierre turns it into a trivial sizzling teapot problem somehow, and he does it so well.   


Charles sneers. “Best of Alexis, what else?” 

He claps his hands together once and begins to sway his hips from left to right, just for a short moment, until his husband tries to mimic his dancing and he stops to watch him instead. Pierre exaggerates every movement, from the hip rocking to the arms flailing in the air, rocking his t-shirt and jeans dressed body like a kid with a Hula hoop, and he staggers to keep his wasted self from falling over every other second. The sight of it and how Pierre suddenly stumbles into him makes laughter flood Charles body.   


“What fucking dance was that?” He asks with a laugh, making sure Pierre is steady on his feet before he lets go.  
  
  
Pierre laughs too. “I don’t know! You...You...” He has to catch his breath.   
  
  
“No, no, not me!” Charles protests amused. “My dance was nothing like yours!”   


“Well, that’s as close as I’m gonna get,” Pierre admits, still smiling.   
  
  
“I will give you two points for trying and one for not falling over.”   


“Are you kidding me?” 

“DAAAAD-AAAADDY!” That angry, heartbreaking scream from their son reached far beyond in volume than his previous attempts. The cozy bubble surrounding Charles and Pierre cracks like an egg. It bleeds out the mellow yellow, leaving them standing in this slowing emptiness until their bubble scatters and splatters into million pieces around them and reality hits in full throttle. Sneakers are already coming off by the shoe rack, left on the floor in lazy fashion as Pierre proceeds undressing cap and sunglasses.   


“How long has he been crying?” He asks, ruffling his hair into but out of place. 

Charles stares down the hallway towards Alexis bedroom with a low sigh. Before Pierre came, he was cracked and busted to the floor. But he will never tell him about how he sat waiting for him here by the front door for over an hour while their angry son cried, cried, CRIED to no end in his bed. _DADDY! DADDYYYYY!_ He screamed. Charles believed leaving him alone would be helpful. He tried to not leave him alone too. All the times he tried, did what he thought to be right and kind, and all Alexis showed him was how wrong he is in every way.   


Shame shimmers faintly in the core of his heart when he opens his mouth, “maybe two hours...... No, actually, it’s been more when I think about it.”   


“When you talk in that way, all I hear is excuses,” Pierre tells him, very seriously, as if suddenly gone sober. 

Charles closes the front door and locks it. “I didn’t check the time which is quite hard anyway when you’re trying to put Alexis to sleep. And he’s angry it’s me and not you.”   
  
  
Pierre snorts. “Oh, come on. You’re making things up in your head.”   


“No, you don’t have to be inside his room to hear it: D-A-D-D-Y.”   


“He’s just angry because he’s tired,” Pierre explains lazily, as if he truly believes it’s that simple. He starts walking towards Alexis’s bedroom, but stop-stumbles outside the bathroom, quietly swinging the door open and disappears inside for his pit-stop. 

The black door he leaves open behind him glares at Charles in the unmoving glow from the bathroom spotlight. Charles can hear him lift the toilet lid as he makes his way over, hears him unbuckle his Fendi belt, unzipping pants. He looks inside, sees Pierre begin to hose out his stock on night-out-pee, pretends he never looked and grabs the door handle on the outside. He almost slams the door shut, but he stops himself at the last second and shuts it normally instead. It’s not Pierre’s fault that he’s too inept to properly connect with a child. 

Coming into Alexis’s bedroom, switching on the ceiling light, he hushes softly at his son screaming himself soar in his bed. The moment Alexis catches sight of him, there’s a swift change of emotions on his grumpy, wet face. It’s something opposite of anger; anticipation; a wish coming true. The little boy with his brown messy hair breaths heavily in-between sobs as he looks straight pass Charles at the doorway, expecting Pierre to come around the corner at any second. Most likely had his little ears somehow picked up on the sound of Pierre's voice despite his own wailing, despite the distance. Charles can't but helplessly observe how the brightest of hopes fades in his son as seconds tick by and there are no signs of Pierre still.   


“Daddy...” Alexis mumbles tiredly and slides down to sit on his legs in the puffy softness of his sheets. He turns his head to look up at Charles, his teary eyes piercing him with hurtful resentment.   


“Pierre's coming." Charles can't look at him as he says it. He picks up big Mr. Rabbit plushie from the floor and watches Alexis stare at it in silence. “Do you want him?” He asks.   
  
  
“No!” It doesn’t surprise Charles to hear. Then Alexis adds sourly, “He’s stupid a-and and I hate you!”   


The air drains from Charles lungs, and then returns abruptly. _He’s angry because he’s tired_. He puts the bunny on the fence and tries to hide himself behind it.   
  
  
“I like you Alexis and I want to be your friend,” he says in a much lighter, childish voice.   


Alexis bounces up on his feet, inhales and caterwauls, “Noooooooo! I H-HATE YOU!”   


"Why do you hate me?" Charles asks in his normal voice, flapping with the bunny's long, fluffy ears lightly, trying to amuse him.   


"Because you not— " An enormous intake of breath, "—DAAAAAAADDY!" 

_Angry because he's tired, angry because he's tired_, Charles repeats desperately inside his head. "So, you hate everyone but Pierre?"   


"I want daddy!"   


"I want him here too," Charles says earnestly and lowers down the big rabbit into the crib, in the corner closest to him.  


"NO!" Alexis yells angrily. "Is my DADDY!" He lashes out, hitting Charles’s lower arm and claws into his skin with his remarkable sharp little nails.   
  
  
Carefully, Charles grasps the fence, just for one specific reason. Because everything in his brain and body is telling him to give up, to walk away and out of Alexis life for good. He hears himself saying, "Hitting me isn't gonna help you." 

Alexis steps in close to him, like the times he wants to be lifted out of bed. And if Charles didn't know him better, he would think he was actually about to reach out for a hug.   
  
  
"My daddy!" Alexis hits him again. This time—the last time, as Charles grabs him by his arm, below the elbow and holds it firmly. The boy releases a loud weeping. Tears instantly breaking lose out his eyes and his legs goes limp under him. 

"Don't. Hit me. Again. I'm so fucking serious, Alexis," Charles says, his voice low, as he tightens before releasing his grip. And Alexis opens his mouth wide, lets out an ear deafening, nightmarish, otherworldly siren-like scream that goes on and goes on and—

“Woah, woah! Alexis, calm doooown!" Pierre’s loud voice makes its way to them from close behind, and not a moment later he appears next to Charles by the crib, reaching down to their son who instantly stops screaming at the sight of him. 

"It's okay," Pierre hushes softly and picks him up into his arms. "I got you butterfly."   


"Chaas is mean," Alexis whines quietly in sobs and throws his arms around Pierre's neck, sniffing. 

  
Pierre gives Charles a look full of questions, as if he must. As if he can't help but wonder in what way he was mean to poor, defenseless little Alexis. Then he squeezes Charles shoulder gently and whispers loudly, "he calls me mean too, so don't worry about it."   
  
  
When worry is the exact thing turning Charles's pulse into a swift pendulum, smashing against the inside of his temple so rapidly all of his thoughts staggers around like drunk penguins. Looking back and into Pierre's squiffy-dazed eyes, it’s like his jaw's been jammed shut by the force of a F1 car. What the hell is he supposed to tell him? He doesn't know half of what Pierre goes through with Alexis when he's racing abroad, only tiny pieces scattered through text messages and short phone calls here and there. Now is the time Pierre decided he should know about the detail of Alexis calling him mean too, obviously. 

He swallows dryness, forces his lips apart and says, "I'm sorry to hear that."   
  
  
"Tell Chaas go away," Alexis cuts in sharply, glaring angrily at Charles from his secure throne in Pierre's arms.   


"I own this place. You go away," Charles says, standing up for himself against a three-year-old.   


"For fucks sake Charles," Pierre snaps tiredly, as if the show just hit the lowest low and he's not staying a moment longer. He turns his back to him, turning all of his attention to Alexis and wipes his tear stained little cheek carefully with a thumb.   


Suddenly everything in the world goes quiet. Everything in Charles's mind—quiet. Like he's exhausted every emotion, every reaction, every thought, and he has nothing left to offer, not to Pierre, not even to himself. He tries to keep himself calm, trying to seem brave and tough while he picks up toys and plushies Alexis scattered on the floor during a much more happier playtime earlier, around Pierre who’s hushing and cooing and hugging their son, just needing to show him how much better and patient parent he is than him. As if he could ever forget. As if the entire world wasn’t organized just to make sure he never forgets, even for a second, that any parent, anywhere, even a snail, could best him. 

* * *

They don't speak as they go on about their night, Pierre half-sitting on the couch's chaise, catching up on a Tv-show with Alexis cuddling into his side asleep and Charles digging up parenting tips on Youtube on his laptop in the kitchen. And he realizes it feels a bit strange, like learning to use a new F1 steering wheel, kind of, with all of its new layout and buttons. In a way that feels so much better than not knowing what he's mentally looking at, like, parenting does have a manual and just the way he can figure out a new complicated steering wheel, he can learn how to become a better parent.   


At 02:01, Charles carefully shuts his laptop, stands from the table and leaves for the living room. Apart from a deep dive into an ocean of parenting videos where experts crucified each other's methods and teaching him nothing aside from staying away from that corner of YouTube, he also looked up what he believes Romain might had referenced to as the glittering lights of Monaco; the Astrorama park in Nice. If anything else, it's at least a possible lead. And not least, he found the courage to write an email to Romain's ex- race engineer at Haas, letting him know he's seen Romain over in Nice and asked him to give him a call whenever he could. Maybe it was a crap-shoot to try wiggle information out of that tooth. No one else at Haas sympathized and was as close to Romain as Gary Gannon, and if he's under oath, it will be quite the wall to prey at. There’s nothing to lose however. 

With very gentle steps, he walks to sit down on the cushion closest to Pierre whose eyelids flutters at his arrival, as if the undescriptive jeans-against-couch noise stirred him awake. Pierre sighs, wiggles a foot for a minute, says nothing, but he's awake now. Charles leans back into the comfiness of the backrest and feels how all his brain wants is to fall asleep, but he won't let it happen yet. He wants to be with Pierre while they still have the energy to open their mouths and form understandable words and finally without Alexis interrupting them or getting in-between. 

The TV speakers are muted and there are no captions telling them what's said between the characters moving around on their 80-inch TV screen. Charles can't tell what show this is, recognizing no one in it so far and all they've been doing in this episode so far since he sat down is dancing around to flashing strobe lights outside a huge picturesque castle. There's a big ass fountain with a large dolphin monument in the middle spraying water at the people skipping around half naked in the pool underneath. Some certain individuals in the F1 community would throw their shirts off for a party like that. Charles didn't include himself in that group, but he's more than willing to go if Pierre does. Mostly to dance. Maybe to make out with Pierre in that circle-shaped swimming pool the camera spun around on the screen just now. Especially to a good song, any song in fact as long as it wasn't classical music. 

Then, out of nowhere, the camera zooms in on a very recognizable face that smiles at him cockily, raising a Red Bull can and toasts it at the camera. Air is caught by definitive surprise in Charles throat and he can't feel himself breathing for a second. That's Max Verstappen, shirtless, in swim trunks with giggling girls fondling their bodies around his. _What the hell?_ He wrinkles his forehead, watches some more and soon the lively party disappears behind a large text saying: Red Bull, it gives you wings—_Oh, it's just a commercial._ Still, Charles wants to shrink into something so small that only a microscope could see him and skip-doo into a hole somewhere, all of him quivering with weirdness and hilarity alike at what he just saw. He turns his head slightly to check Pierre's reaction to it, witnessing a trace of a smile diminishing softly on his handsome but tired face. He's very handsome in fact. Charles lowers his hand from the backrest and swoops Pierre's hair back from his forehead, smiles at how it doesn't want to stay back and flops down on his face again. 

Pierre tilts his head just enough to reveal his grey-shaded eyes to him, lifting his free arm from the couch and drowsily tries to reach for Charles's face, or hair, or shoulder, without really putting any effort behind it. 

"I can move closer if you want," Charles whispers, grappling Pierre's fingers gently with his own and lets them slip through his hold as Pierre pulls his arm back.  


"You'll....prob..wake Alexis," Pierre mutters tiredly, his voice hoarse from partying and drinking and staying up late. "I just wanted...to touch.....you....somewhere and........fucking commercial breaks."   
  
  
Charles smiles at how Pierre tries to put his sentence together. "This is actually very pro Max for a French TV-channel," he comments. 

"I sort of....liked it," Pierre mumbles. 

"It should have been you instead of Max," Charles tells him, just above a whisper. " It's a French channel."   
  
  
"I'm....too sexy......" Pierre trails off for a second, yawning silently and then continues, sounding even more hoarse and tired, "And Red Bull can't.....even...afford me anymore."   


Charles laughs quietly through his nose. "True. So, maybe I should switch team to Red Bull next year then? I'm more French than he is." His own joke leaves a sickly taste in the back of his throat. He'd never want to be considered as French, no matter the situation. 

"Your face...Charles...sells only fashion....like...clothes and watches......You're...magazine pretty." They look at each other, both smiling. Pierre adds silently, "Seriously. You. Are."   


"Did you know that your lips could probably promote the entire world production of lip balm alone?" Charles retaliates teasingly.   


Pierre closes his eyes and leans his head back on the cushion, breathing out. "Yeah, and what...about your—" He clears his throat but doesn't follow up with anything.   


And silence. Charles fights a smile as he throws a glance at his watch, then turns his head to look out the naked panorama window to his right. So many bright stars out there. He imagines suddenly the possibility of Romain staring up at the very same stars this moment. But he decides. No. This thing with him cannot continue to go on like this. Next week is supposed to be his last week with his family before off to Maranello he drives and then off to Belgium for a racing weekend. It's supposed to be cozy and fun, but in one day it's suddenly become a dense, unnavigable labyrinth. And Romain still wants to pretend he is gone with the wind. Even though he clearly saw it was his friend Charles Leclerc staring back at him in the park. By any means, he was a fool to think he had a trustworthy friend in Romain. He quickly pulls himself out of his self-pity and returns to simply observe the beautiful starlit sky outside their window. Shortly thereafter he nods and blinks, flinches back to an awake state. 

"Pierre?" He looks to his husband right beside him, then at Alexis squeezed between the soft backrest and Pierre. Both seem sound asleep, tight together, just like he imagines them every other night while he's away from home. He thinks of carrying Alexis to his bedroom as he stubbornly rests his stinging, tired eyes on even more incomprehensible commercials flashing across the TV screen. 

"There's more chance...of an," Pierre starts to slur, like out of nowhere. He inhales and exhales slowly, and collapses into Charles's side. "An alien invasion than......us....banging right...now."   
  
  
"Yeah....How about we catch some sleep first?" Charles replies almost laughing, his brain processing how Pierre ended up on that topic all on his own somehow. 

Words are slurred and muffled from Pierre's lips being too tired to move properly, but at length, after another pause, Pierre mumbles slowly, as if half-asleep, "..Mm....Set the alarm........at Ferrari......stud." He makes a sound like phffsh and Charles can't tell if it's a laugh or just an exhale. 

  
Then a yawn climbs itself out of Charles mouth so everlasting so forceful that his sight turns into a pool of tears. They should really get to bed, he tells himself without feeling convinced it'd ever happen. He sinks further and further down on the couch until Pierre's limp head knocks into the side of his ever so lightly and he blinks slowly at the disruptive TV flicker. His brain tries to focus on the movements, to find a thread of sense in the pictures, but it can't make much sense of anything. He moves his legs up on the large footrest, blinks slowly twice, then grabs the TV remote from Pierre's lap carefully and turns the TV off. A wholesome darkness interrupts the bright flickering, like a solid veil, it makes it even harder for him to muster a movement off the couch. There's a pillow in the other corner. He rests the side of his face on his own shoulder and tries to silently command the pillow to slide over. _A__h, _ _ forget it_—the last he remembers thinking before dreams and reverie floods his mind. 

* * *

  
  
  
Sometime later he wakes up, fingers picking at his face, to a dull sunny glow in the room. And before he even opens his eyes, he can hear Alexis whisper worryingly very close to his ear: 

  
"Chaas wake up now!" 

  
Takes Charles another second, then he squeezes his both eyes open to a slit. "I'm awake..." 

  
"Chaas?" Alexis comes more and more into view as Charles eyes adjusts to the morning brightness bathing all around. "Chaas?........Chaas?" 

  
Charles inhales. "Yes?" 

  
"I can't wake daddy," Alexis says quietly, his voice a choked mumbling of worry. "I need to go potty..." 

  
"Oh." Charles picks himself up from the couch, looks around, looks at the boy, looks over at Pierre who is facing the other direction into the chaise's backrest, and memories of last night start to trickle back to him. His neck is stiff and pain shoots down to his left shoulder when he turns his head to look at his son standing on the floor right next to him, and tries to sound as rational as possible. "But you've gone potty by yourself before, remember?" 

  
"Yes, but it's scary an-and there are snakes wants to bite me," Alexis explains, gesturing at the hallway. 

  
Just as Charles is trying to figure out how to even begin answering that statement, Pierre clears his throat quietly, saying "Don't start a war Charles. Just go with him." 

  
As endearing as it is to have Alexis asking him for help, which of course isn't an everyday routine, the self-proclaimed household-chieftain in the corner just dug into his sore, unhealed scar of previous knife-twists and Charles stops himself from relenting to Alexis plead. 

  
"Ey, wait a minute." Charles scoots closer and leans over Pierre, noticing the annoyance clamped on his face. "You faked so he'd wake me instead." 

  
"Nooooooo;" Pierre groans miserly. "I literally just woke up!" 

  
"Don't lie to me. I can tell by your voice." 

  
"I'm just saying reasoning with Alexis is pointless," Pierre says, looking up at him, eyebrows spiked downwards. "Try to not do that for once because otherwise he'll start asking why, why and why, and in the end you're gonna make him upset." 

"Daddy come," Alexis begs softly, tugging at Pierre's t-shirt. 

"Sorry Alexis, I'm too tired," Pierre says, but really meant he’s too hung over. "Charles will help you instead." 

"Why?" Alexis asks, knitting his eyebrows together in confusion. 

Pierre closes his eyes and pretends to be very, very asleep, snores erupting from his nose loudly, much like a cartoon character. And at that creeps an urge out of somewhere in Charles, an urge to pinch Pierre's nose. He bats a smirk at Alexis, puts his thumb and index finger on each side of Pierre's nostrils and squeezes them together. 

A loud exasperated sigh flows out of Pierre's mouth next. "Oh, that's clever, but I'm gonna sleep all day no matter what." 

"No, not funny!" Alexis whines, looking up at Charles for assistance, his face expressing nothing but anguish at Pierre's horrifying statement. 

"Do you know what this means?" Charles says to Alexis, letting go of Pierre's nose. "It means you and I will go Go-karting without daddy which means you can have all the ice cream you want afterwards." 

"Nooooooooo!" Pierre protests tiredly, the same moment a delighted smile spreading across Alexis face fades out. It's always Pierre's words that hits the hardest, that means more; A heavy hammer nailing rules onto their walls. Bang. Bang. 

"Wha-a... I don't care." Charles dismisses what he knows Pierre's going to say next with a flick of his hand. "It's a family tradition to have ice cream after karting practice on Fridays. It makes him happy." 

"No disrespect to your family, Charles, but I've told you that's not the kind of tradition I want in ours," Pierre says in a totally expressionless voice. 

"How about it makes me happy to honor my father who did the same for me when I was a child?" Charles says. Because he doesn't understand—he doesn't understand why Pierre doesn't get it. 

"Which has literally nothing to do with Alexis," Pierre argues flatly, and Charles is now sure he's only looking for a confrontation. 

Let him say just one more thing. 

"The same with printing '8' on the number plate on Alexis’s kart to honor Grosjean," Pierre says, wrinkling his forehead. 

"Yes, because 17 was already in use and I believed Romain was dead, obviously." Charles stands from the couch, takes his son's hand and slowly leads him around the footrest out towards the hallway. Alexis kindly follows him for once, almost walks faster than he does. Most likely because he's in a real hurry to the bathroom.   


“If you fucking truly believed he was dead, then why have you kept his number on your phone all these fucking years?” Pierre asks with slight agitation, as if he suddenly had access to his contact list, as if he had checked his phone behind his back.   
  
  
“It’s my fucking personal right.” Charles can’t stay for a second longer inside the same room as Pierre in spite of recognizing there are twice as many reasons why he should stay and fight this out with his spouse. He wants to move faster than Alexis allows him to. He bends down and picks him up, hurries the last meters to the bathroom door.   
  
  
“You have to talk to me about your fucking deal with Romain!” He hears Pierre call far behind, absolutely sure it’s from inside the living room.   
  
  
“I don’t need to talk to you about it!” Charles answers him firmly before he puts Alexis down on the black bathroom carpet close to the toilet. He gets the step stool out of the corner, standing next to the potty chair, and puts it into place on the toilet seat, but Alexis doesn’t move other than chewing on the tip of his left thumb with his eyes on the floor. It’s a sign he might be scared or upset. Charles can’t pick on his own, he doesn’t know enough when he really should know about this. 

“Look Alexis—” Charles closes the door, shuts out anything Pierre might want to add and kneels down in front of his son, “—No one is angry at you. This isn’t your fault. “ He repeats the same words his mom once told him in a much similar situation.   
  
  
“You angy at daddy,” Alexis guesses softly with a tearful look in his brown eyes. “Why you always angy?”   
  
  
“Do you think I’m always angry?” Charles asks cautiously. Inwardly he’s screaming for help; _what am I supposed to do or to say!?_   
  
  
Alexis nods twice faintly.   
  
  
“I’m...” Charles tries desperately to think out something sensible to say but not too sensible, it’s a toddler after all. “Doesn’t Pierre get angry too?”   
  
  
Alexis doesn’t say anything, his fingers and mind seemingly busy fidgeting with the Hublot watch Charles’s wearing.   
  
  
“I do get angry sometimes and I’m not proud of it,” Charles explains carefully, feeling uncertain of where he might hit a mine and explosions. “I can’t promise I won’t get angry at Pierre again and he’ll most likely get angry with me. It’s... what we grownups do at times....” He stops himself from going further into it, feeling he had already messed up somehow and sits in silence for a moment, observing Alexis touch and turn the outer rim of his wrist watch.   
  
  
“Do you like my watch?” He asks Alexis when he understands this little boy isn’t going to respond to his explanation.   
  
  
Alexis shakes his head many times. “No.”   
  
  
“Oh, come on, it’s one of the best in the world,” Charles says through a smile. “It can go really fast. Look.” He pushes one of the buttons on the side and the seconds hand rushes forward. 

  
Its drastic change of pace puts a contemplating crease between Alexis’s eyebrows and he seems to process what this means. “It’s fast!” He agrees lightly, suddenly.   
  
  
Charles turns it off. “It’s my secret. This watch makes me a faster race driver.”   
  
  
Alexis smiles like he doesn’t get it. “I want one.”   
  
  
“Oh, but it only works if you’re old like me.”   
  
  
“Why?”   
  
  
And there’s a why. Charles has to come up with a good—a real good answer to this or the whys will keep coming endlessly. The first idea that springs up is the one he snatches instantly and he unhinges his watch from his wrist.   
  
  
“Because you’re too small to wear it,” he tells him, gently encircling the black rubber wristband around Alexis’s tiny wrist to make his point clearer.   
  
  
“Oh!” Alexis squeaks at this tidbit, tearing his eyes up from their arms and hands to look at him instead. “I-I-I...want-um daddy likes go fast and-and he can have one too.”   
  
  
“You want daddy to have this one?” Charles checks amused, holding up his watch.   
  
  
Alexis clasps his hands together behind his back and nods. “Yes.”   
  
  
“But daddy’s very fast already, isn’t he?”   
  
  
“Um... Um. I don’t know,” Alexis says feebly, his eyes on the watch as Charles puts it back on.   
  
  
“Okay,” Charles says. “I think it’s about time you climb up on the toilet, Champ.” 

  
"Mm but...” Alexis pauses, pursing his lips, and then hisses, “I peed my pants.”   
  
  
There’s a deep searing pang inside of Charles. Murky cold trickles and prickles all the way from his neck to his tailbone. This happened because of him and his mindless jabbering about his stupid watch. And he’s not all too familiar with changing clothes. Diapers—is his son even wearing a pair of those?—He can quickly assess he is. There are simply too many ways this can go terribly wrong for him now with a conflict brewing with Pierre as well, and he is a horrible dad. Truly. Worthless. He rubs his mouth, looking around the room until a small hand tugs at his T-shirt sleeve and instinctively his attention lands on Alexis who asks him for his daddy to come and help, his little mouth a sour pout.   
  
  
“No, no Alexis,” Charles quickly replies. Not that. “We can do this. I can help you.”   
  
  
“But daddy...” Alexis turns his head to look at the door with quickened breathing.   
  
  
Charles stiffens. “Alexis, can you let me try at least?”   
  
  
Those brown strands of hair dances wildly on Alexis‘s head as he shakes a no, shaky sniffles sounding from his small nose.   
  
  
The unfairness, the hopelessness of having to pick fights between his son and his husband, and no matter what he chooses, Pierre will have his methodical opinions carelessly voiced either way. The better choice is to be spited for taking a black flag than for making Alexis upset because it hurts even more. So, Charles stands and opens the door, calls out to Pierre about the accident. When they meet in the hallway, Pierre ignores him and only showers their son with sweet comforting sayings. But Charles goes along with it. He wants to see Alexis happy. He walks downstairs to exercise, to shower and try to think of anything else. 


	7. Spit the ghost out

Later the same morning, before Charles put his spoon into his yoghurt with banana slices, sprinkled with cinnamon dust, he had already come to the bitter conclusion that this time—This time, their cozy Friday Breakfast Club wasn't going to happen. It would be down there on the list with other, lesser important yet painful Pierre-ignores-everyone-mornings. He knows because Pierre is preparing his double cheese and turkey sandwich on the short end of the kitchen island, the end furthest away from the dining table. Whenever Pierre makes this decision, he is wordlessly making a point, or so he believes. He means to leave through the hallway behind him to eat his breakfast on his own in the gaming room downstairs, and Alexis can't follow because of the safety gate which means Charles must take care of an upset toddler in the middle of EVERYTHING else. Pierre usually treats him respectfully in spite of turning off his talking mechanism once in the moon, but since Alexis started to become more aware of them, Pierre's suddenly started taking advantage of it, putting Alexis on the chess board and shuffles him around like a pawn selfishly to control the outcome of their fights. He. Will. Always. Win. The match will strike once and Charles burns.   
  
But Charles also knows he’s more than capable to stand through fire and blaze. It's these recurring winters of unresolved conflicts he doesn't do well in. So, they must make peace, somehow. And tonight, Charles wants all of this bad tension bundled up in their bodies to release as they get-it-on in their bedroom. This might only stay in his head like a bad love song, fueling him as badly as diesel fuels a F1 car—it's happened before—but his banana slices are turning brown and Alexis has almost finished his milk on the chair next to him. Pierre opens the refrigerator, half of him disappearing behind the steel grey door as he puts the ingredients back inside. Patience is virtue. Charles takes a swallow of his juice, watching Pierre slam the door close and return to pick up his plate on the kitchen island. 

  
"Are you taking it downstairs?" Charles strikes, calm and composed. 

  
It's no surprise to any of them to hear the demonstrative thud of a plastic cup being banged against the dark wooden table, once. "No, no!" Alexis shakes his head firmly, putting the sippy to his lips and mumble-talks, "You eat here daddy."   


Charles feels equally disappointed as good about himself for deploying Pierre's "weapon". With Alexis being aware of the situation before the incident has even occurred, Pierre's advantage is at once gone.   


"I can't believe this," Pierre says over there, voice lowered, and picks up his plate, coming over calmly. "Of course, I'm eating here." Plate to table, he drags out the chair and sits, then locks eyes with Charles across from him. "Why are you giving me that look for?" He asks, defensively. 

"You have two funny horns coming out of your forehead," Charles explains with a small smile, tapping his own forehead lightly. 

Pierre snorts quietly and picks up his sandwich. "Sounds like you need glasses." 

"I just wanted to let you know. In case people stare. I mean, so you know why." 

"We already know why." Pierre's lips suddenly curve upward. "They stare at me because I'm the hotter half of this marriage." 

"Oh my God," Charles moans, both frustrated and marveled at Pierre's reaction. "I'm not gonna answer that. I just need you to know something." 

"Fire away." Pierre bites into his soft, crispy sandwich and chews it slowly like a cow grazing. 

Alexis disappears more and more out of view, climbing down from his chair on the opposite side of Charles, uninterested in involving himself in their conversation. Charles holds the chair steady by the backrest until all of Alexis has let go of it, and for a short moment he observes him strolling out into the living room while thinking about how he wants to attack the pending subject with Pierre. 

"I've closed the safety gate," Pierre announces, dowsing a worry Charles didn't even remember was there. 

"Oh, good," Charles says, leaning back and rests his forearms on the table surface. "So... I never deleted Romain's phone number, and to be completely honest it's just for sentimental reasons I still have it. Can I—" 

"Okay. I don't know how to react to that," Pierre interrupts, looking at him like he might be crazy. 

"But you didn't have a problem checking my phone behind my back, did you?" 

Pierre looks confused for a moment, but then a wave of clarity passes over his face. "I would never do that to you. It was Nico Hülkenberg who texted me about it. He said it's a sign of someone not being over their crush." 

This stuns Charles for a second. _ Oh my God, fucking _ _ Hülkenberg _ _ ; Lit. On. Fire _. "I don't have a crush on Romain. I never did." 

Pierre stares at him, suddenly still and rigid like a statue. "Why are you so fucking obsessed with him then? It's been two years!" 

"I'm not obsessed with him." 

"Yes, you are Charles. You are! Why are you not open about him!?" It's like suddenly, Pierre is barreling into the sky and raining back down as razor-sharp projectiles. His pointy elbows trembles faintly against the rough wooden surface stretching between them as he waits for his answer, looking like he's ready to hit him. 

_ Charge then! _ Charles wants to tip the table over, just to have something said without saying another word. "I tried to talk to you," he tells Pierre, and he can't believe how utterly stupid he sounds---how utterly stupid he is. 

"When? When?" Pierre demands, both his hands folding into whitening fists on the table. "You never talked about him for two years! Do you love him?" 

"No, I don't fucking love him. He's a friend, Pierre! You have nothing to—" 

"What is going on then!? Why do you still have his number?" 

Charles stares in disbelief. "Because it's my personal right!" 

"No Charles! He's supposed to be gone! You don't have a fucking personal right to keep lying about this!" Pierre stands abruptly, knocking over his chair. _ Crash _. He retreats to the kitchen island and smacks the row of empty Red Bull cans forcefully. Cans hitting cupboards and floor loudly. Alexis screaming—pleading him to stop from the other room. Another breakfast to add to the hall of shame. 

"It's okay, Alexis! It was an accident." Pierre lies to calm their son, holding the edge of the kitchen bench tightly as he leans against it. He keeps staring at some certain spot on the floor somewhere in front of him. "Do you think I wanted any of this, knowing you were with another guy in your head half the time?" Pierre sounds and looks like maybe he thinks this has just officially stopped being worth it. 

He is drenching himself in-side-out in mistrust, more than Charles thought was purely possible for him. But the color on his face is still there. The first and last time he worded similar thoughts all of him turned pale like a grey, sad dawn in February and he had packed his bag in 400 km/h before storming out of their hotel room near Circuit Gilles Villeneuve; tears were inevitable. That Pierre is still clamping himself to the kitchen bench and hasn't made one single move to sign himself off from their confrontation yet, is all things considered, a good sign. Charles can feel himself opening and closing his mouth like a fish on land fighting for its life to breathe. He doesn't know why he can't get any words out or why he didn't say anything the moment after Pierre spoke up. It's been seconds. He can't. Talk! 

"I..." He swallows a lump in his throat and scratches at a tiny dent on the table. "I don't love him. How...can you even..." His lungs don't want to carry out the rest. 

"Why do you have his number on your phone then?" Pierre is instantly provoked, launching himself off the bench the way he'd launch out of a poorly done pit-stop, advancing on him. "Because I wanna know! I want to know everything!" He stops on the opposite side of the table, and continues sharply, "Why you kept his number! Why you're leaving me to look for him. Why you talk to Nico about him, but not to ME. Why is that Charles!?" 

"Because I miss him!" Charles yells back at him. "Why is it so fucking hard to understand. I miss my friend Romain! And not once did you ask me how I felt after he disappeared. I didn't know you cared, and I wanted to move on, but I..." 

"But you...?" Pierre picks up his chair from the floor and stares brutally at him. "Come on Charles, just spit it the fuck out." 

"I... really don't know why I haven't moved on." _Actually, I never tried to_, Charles adds silently to himself, feeling shockingly guilty to no fault by his own. 

"Okay. Call him," Pierre demands. "Show me that he is gone." 

"He never answers," Charles half-resists, too afraid Romain might answer, too hurt to give in. 

Pierre shouts, "Call him!" And Charles exhales briefly, pulls out his phone from his pocket, wakes it and opens his contact list. 

"Now!" He hears Pierre crave angrily as he hoovers his thumb over the call-button. "Push the fucking button!" Pierre commands next, impatiently, like the whole room was stuck in slow-motion except for him and he wants to kill someone for it. Charles complies. 

There's a short pause. 

Dots running close next to Romain's name as the monotone signals pulses out of the loud speaker. Charles finds himself begging for Romain to not pick up. If there's any time for it, this is not it. He counts every signal, checking them off one by one—the same he's always done it. Only now, after an interrupted signal, he feels a stutter of relief ease down his purple turmoil when he otherwise only sees his own hope fading before him. 

Eight... He counts, shifting a glare at Pierre. 

  


Nine... Four more and it’s all over. 

  


Ten... 

Pierre takes a controlled, deep breath. 

Eleven... 

Charles is certain. 

Twelve... 

Thirteen... 

The call disconnects and everything is silent apart from Pierre's once-every-tenth-second-loud exhaling. There's no scowl on his face, but there are upset emotions burning through his eyes. Whatever is happening inside of him, Charles has to deal with it now. He should try to put him in his place and convince him entirely; this is what it is. This is what his friendship with Romain has become—just stupid unanswered calls. 

"It's been like this since he disappeared," he explains to Pierre flatly and lets the phone slip off his hand to land on the table. 

"You've been calling him?" Pierre realizes suddenly this is the case. Charles didn't even have to bat an eye for him to cement the truth. "What the fuck Charles!" 

Charles tries to swallow the instinct to be defensive. "I had done the same if it was you! But I'd called you a hundred times more often because you mean everything to me. I want you. And this, with Alexis and our home, I want it with you." 

"No!" Pierre slams his palm onto the table so hard everything on it rattles. "Romain needs to go. His fucking ghost—OUT of your life, out of my life," he says, pointing between them. "Keep some memories of him, but not that—" He points at Charles's phone "—Not his number and stop obsess over him! If you love me—" 

Out of nowhere erupts a high-pitched scream from the opening to their living room, and of course, it's Alexis throwing a fit. In that split second, Charles gets overwhelmed with frustration. He can't keep Romain's number. He can't make Pierre understand. Pierre is being unreasonable. Nico Hülkenberg is a fucking idiot. _No. Stop. No_. He can't hear his own thoughts anymore. The screaming. THE FUCKING— 

"Delete his number," Pierre tells him above Alexi's scream, leaving the table and the confrontation with that hurtful demand of his to take care of and comfort their son. The first thing Alexis does is lashing out at Pierre. He hits his leg and bolts back inside the living room, wailing to them to shut up. Wailing he hates them. 

Charles has to concentrate all of his energy on not allowing himself to cry as he watches Pierre hurry after their heartbroken son. He's so empty and frozen in place. He can't... 

For a long time, Charles remains where he sits. The contact list shines open on his phone in front of him and he's constantly a light tap away to delete Romain's number. He tries to convince himself he owes this to Pierre. Out of all the stupid things he's done, this is the worst one. He must move on and show Pierre he's finally taking that step. His index finger twitches and he almost tapped. It was close. His lungs deflate, but at once he's pulled back to where reality is and the horror of deleting the number swells inside his chest and throat yet again.   
No, Pierre isn't right to think there was anything more between him and Romain than friendship, laughter, fun and deep talks. Sexual attraction was on the minus end of things from the first moment he saw Romain in the paddock. All of him always, always yearned for Pierre. He wonders if Pierre didn't handle his friendship with Romain that well despite clearly showing the opposite on the outside. Was there jealousy the entire time and he couldn't catch it? He lowers his finger slowly, but doesn't have the capacity to make that dire tap, it's the worst feeling, and he can't get a grip over how stupid he is. He can imagine all the worry and anger Pierre went through after reading Nico's stupid text, those forged ideas drilling mercilessly. Charles, a liar. Or worse, a cheater. 

"Well?" Pierre's voice asks from nearby, and it's calmer, even warmer than in a long while. 

Sighing, Charles looks up from his phone and sees him coming over, carrying a pacifier-sucking Alexis in his arms. Those little cheeks on their son are flushed from salty tears, but he's silent and looks content where he is. 

"Well..." Charles begins, shaken by how badly this is going. "It's not that easy, but—" He finally taps 'delete' above Romain's number, and 'delete' on the pop-up window next "—I deleted it. His number his gone now." And it strikes him how truly, awful gone it is with no mention of that losing-control-on-a-city-circuit feeling that hits him even harder and he panics inwardly. 

Pierre nods faintly. "I didn't see the number, but I trust you." 

"I'm really sorry Pierre." Charles then wished he had said something hurtful instead, but his mind has stalled and he's in default mode. 

"Yeah, you look really down over there," Pierre acknowledges with no trace of sympathy on him. "Hope you don't mind to watch over Alexis for a while. I need a shower before we head out to the karting center." 

"I don't mind. Take the time you need.” And he doesn't mind. He wants this. Pierre wants this. It's going to be all right, and he believes in it. 

Pierre faces Alexis, smiling. “You two can play something fun on the iPad.” 

Alexis gives Charles a coy look, then he nods in agreement but he turns back to look at Pierre, mumbling something behind the pacifier and Pierre raises his eyebrows bewildered. 

“I’m sorry, what?” Pierre asks him, pulling out the thing stuck between Alexis’s lips. 

“I play an-and Chaas watch,” Alexis says quietly, fiddling with Pierre’s t-shirt collar. 

It’s enough for Charles to feel a faint smile break out on his face. “Aw, you won’t let me play with you?” 

Alexis shakes his head and whispers loudly to Pierre, “Chaas cheats.” 

Pierre laughs. “I don't believe it. When did he cheat?" 

"All the time." Alexis whispers yet again, unintentionally loud, and clearly can't comprehend that everyone inside the kitchen can hear him talking. 

Charles stands from the table and begins to clear it, pretending along he can't hear Alexis. In fact, he can't hear any of them talking over there. Carefully, he stacks their dirty dishes on top of Pierre's sandwich plate. He takes a nibble of the leftover sandwich on it and proceeds over to the kitchen island where he puts it down. Well then, and now—if only he could go somewhere else—He opens up the dishwasher while Pierre is picking up Red Bull cans off the floor, Alexis assisting him—If only he could be alone— 

Alexis asks, "Can I have?" 

Pierre replies, "No. These blue cans are only for me." 

"Why?" 

Alone, just for a moment—

"It says right here on the can: Daddy's drink." 

"Oh. Chaas have it?" 

"No." 

"Why?" 

Pierre mutters words similar to; because I say so. He places the cans on the kitchen island. One. After. Another. Then he leaves the room hastily and rips the air open somehow behind him, because all of the sudden it's so thick with something new. It's hot and it gathers like a fiery ball inside Charles rib cage as he rinses Alexis's mug. Turning it, turning it. Every side rinsed. There are no spots left, yet he can't stop. It's clean enough, he can see it with his own eyes, increasing the pressure on the water flow in spite of it. The gushing waterfall splashes harshly on his hands turning the mug over and over before him. It's still there, it's not going away. The bright blue dots on the mug are relentless. The whole mug is infected by unreasonable of the grandest. Fucking piece of—He opens his mouth. He's about to say shit, by default, but there's someone, this staring little boy beside him. He must stop. He knows he's not supposed to break down in front of him. Not supposed to curse. Not supposed to cry. But he has already started to fall down that spiral. He shuts the water off, drops the mug in the sink and slams the dishwater lid close. 

  
"Go sit on the couch Alexis," he says quickly. "I will get the iPad." 

  
Alexis smiles and hurries off. "Okay!" 

  
And Charles is thinking: That child deserves nothing but the best in the world, but I'm not good enough as a parent for it to happen. Alexis is smiling at him as he climbs up on the chaise, limber and carefree as a little chimpanzee. Charles hears some door close and then random whistling from Pierre as he opens up a drawer inside the kitchen, and the familiar thuds of feet going downstairs. He lifts up the iPad from the drawer and steps into the living room, thinking he’s smiling back at his son on approaching the couch. Two arms reach up to him eagerly, the iPad specifically. Alexis is a little impatient to get started. Charles settles down next to him, sniffing with a shaky breath and runs his finger over his left eye, wiping off the wetness he sensed was there. He can’t tell if Alexis can tell he’s struggling emotionally, but for once, not knowing doesn’t seem so frightening. They don’t speak much. It feels okay. _Swoopbeepwooheep_. “Bang. Right down,” Alexis comments his own success in one of his games. Charles says well done champ, but he doesn’t think he hears him.   
  
Later, after Alexis is the champion of the Where’s bear game, the Ditty bird game and the puzzle game, where Charles knowledge did nothing but annoy him, after Pierre’s finally dressed himself in his loose-fitting jeans, white and black Red Bull t-shirt and dark blue Red Bull cap, after Charles has found the keys to their Lamborghini Urus under a stack of dirty laundry inside their bedroom (Pierre’s pile), the three of them are buckled up with Alexis’s kart fastened on top of the trailer secured to the said Lamborghini. The car’s paint is called Sunrise, but is too orange for it to be called anything else but Carrot, or in Charles’s personal opinion at least. However, in Pierre’s opinion it’s more romantic with sunrises. Their Lamborghini is, in other words, a carrot colored sunrise to be democratic about it.   
Charles puts the car in reverse, looks up in the rear-view and winces. That silly number ‘8’ on the kart’s number plate appears in every mirror and he must use them because he’s the driver and the car need to be backed up so he can then turn and drive in the right direction.   
  
  
He opens his door and leans out, trying to see and measure how much space he has left. “Am I close to the...um...” He turns his head to look inside, at Pierre, trying to remember the word for... “The um...”   
  
Pierre looks around in confusion momentarily until he gets it and opens the passenger door, leaning half-way out and even further, holding onto the door frame to not fall out completely. That’s something Pierre does all too often. He’s too lazy to step out of the car, but still not lazy enough to do that shit when the wing mirror seem more efficient.   
  
  
"Okay, we've got great news, “Pierre says, sitting back in his seat. “The um and the car are romantically involved." 

Charles has no idea what this is, some sitcom with Pierre as the comical relief. Predictable. Confusing. "What are you talking about? Did I hit it?" 

  
"You've flattened it." Pierre shuts the passenger door. 

  
"The wall?" Charles asks sarcastically, finally remembering the word he was looking for. 

  
"Oh, you were talking about the wall? I thought you meant the UM-brella on the ground.” Pierre laughs a merry little laugh. “I was thinking: what the hell is this?"   
  
  
"Just when you thought your husband couldn't get any weirder." Charles drags his door close and backs closer to the wall, carefully. 

  
"I know....... I know,” Pierre admits with a chuckle, getting his phone out from his pocket and starts humming to some song stuck in his head, which Charles knows is making Alexis wag his head happily behind them.   
  
  
Charles rotates the steering wheel and steers the car out on the street, blocking off a slow-poke Audi before it got the chance to overtake him. They pass by his Ferrari and he mentally waves goodbye at her. He thinks she says don’t come home too late and a flare of sunlight flexes conveniently on her wing mirror at Charles beholding her through his mirror on his left. Another second of admiration, he is then looking ahead of them again at the narrow passage of road sheathed with parked exclusive cars and tall penthouses. Again, and again, stream of sunlight explodes through the gaps between some of the buildings and if you are quick, you can spot a shimmering blue mass of ocean hiding on the other side. They were very fortunate to have this weather beaming down on them today, but Charles secretly hopes for rain to appear out of nowhere so they can skip Alexis go-karting session and he could instead go somewhere else on his own. Where would he go? He thinks about it for some time, pondering over a boat in the port he’s sharing with his brother as he mindfully navigates the car through an intersection and out on the high way.   
How strange this is. To sit here and not talk, hold their tongues politely in front of Alexis in case of a confrontational conversation. Everything feels crystal white, brittle and cold, and there’s little Charles can do for it to stop within these walls. Cold firmly clutches around his fingers, and it’s 27 degrees outside, 19 in the car. Pierre comments quietly that Alexis is asleep and turns the radio on. Low, soft music comes out, serene and slow beats and a smooth man’s voice sings about how everybody hurts. . . Everybody cries Sometimes everything is wrong.   
  
For a brief moment, Charles is sure he’s going to cry, taken back by the lyrics and how it makes him evaluate himself, Pierre’s barren life without racing, Romain’s disappearance and Alexis stuck having him as his dad. A blink, and the blurry mud shifts. The aggressive lump slides down his throat and he breaths out through his nose. It’s going to be okay. Hold on---as the singer repeats. Then the song fades out. . .   
  
  
"Why do you think Romain was always so eager to hang out with you?" Pierre asks tentatively, a cruel split in the silence. 

"I don't know. I mean, what brought that on?" Charles shrugs his shoulders in pretense, having a clear vision in his head to why Romain enjoyed his company but he wishes to keep this memory to himself. "Could be a number of things," he adds quickly. 

"Yeah, like the time you defended him at your first F1 driver's briefing." A funny little half smile of nostalgia tugs at the corner of Pierre's mouth. "So, he was probably captivated about the fact that you stood up for him." 

"No, you really think that's what it is?" Charles says, not at all surprised. But something about Pierre’s guess opens up a sliver of a memory from that meeting at Melbourne in 2018; Wasn’t it the first time Romain ever spoke to him? 

"Well, you know what happened next: I'm grateful, you were perfect. Just don't get too bold—" Pierre does his perfect voice impression of Romain, then a short pause and suddenly he says with reflection, "My God, he sounded just like me after our first-time having sex." 

  
Charles heart twists at the way he says it, the way it reminds him of their awkward debut at age seventeen and eighteen in his own bedroom next to his brother's and at the way it reminds him of the loud roar of feeling genuinely significant in the ripples of Romain’s compliment. And suddenly, Charles doesn’t hear another sound from Pierre at all. He darts a glance at him. Pierre sits sunken down in his seat, hands resting on the armrests and with a blank expression he stares straight ahead through the windshield. Far gone into another realm perhaps. Maybe entangling himself in their sex debut which is a funny thought. Charles is at risk of saying something slighting about his own performance that night. It’s safer to stay quiet. If Pierre brings something up on his own, he’ll mention it. 

  
Some minutes later, Pierre breaks the silence, slowly saying, "I really want to know how Romain feels about you." 

"He doesn't feel anything, Pierre," Charles answers, and is lightly miffed at his stubbornness. 

"Mm, sure.” 

"What I mean is that he doesn't give a... _ damn _... about me," Charles clarifies and changes lane to overtake a sleepy Peugeot. 

"When did Crashjean ever give... " Pierre pauses, facing him with a snort. "You know, his overtaking technique pretty much sums up his whole personality." 

Maybe he was trying to lighten up his mood with that joke. Or maybe he just had no idea it was too soon to throw his jealousy out there. Charles isn't ready to deal with that. He isn't even ready to accept that he’s accepted to move on.   


“Okay, you’re gloating, but let’s not get carried away," he tells Pierre, as in a not-too-firm warning.   


“Yeah. Breaking up sucks,” Pierre says in this oh-I-feel-so-good-about-myself tone. 

  
Every muscle in Charles's body goes taut. “Fucking stop with your mocking jokes, Pierre!” 

  
The muddy and cold ambience strikes once again and Charles feels like stopping the car next to the road, head out into the wheat field on their right and wail in emotional pain. He can't do that though. He must continue to drive. They're not going to stop just because he has a certain, specific need to scream in a field. He glances sideways at Pierre at the exact moment Pierre gives him a sorrowful, maybe guilt laced, look. His gut curls around itself, wondering what's going to come out of his mouth next. He turns back to look at the road. 

  
“I'm Sorry... You know I love you." Pierre tries to empathize his statement by caressing him at the back of his neck. Softly he adds, "I’m going to help you get through this.”   


He should have said that long ago, when it stood clear Romain had disappeared for real and not after forcing him to delete Romain's phone number during a fight two years later. This reeks of Pierre feeling guilty about it. Charles can't take him seriously enough to fall into him. 

“Look, I know I did the right thing," Charles says, trying to give him some credit for at least helping him to move on. "You know, Romain doesn’t want to be friends, and I shouldn’t be waiting for him to change his mind. But I’m missing him so much, I want to know if he’s the guy I saw in the park, and if you can help me to try and find him.” He instantly regrets the last part. He went too far. Absolutely, crazy-person too far. 

“Okay, you got it.” 

“Unless... Am I being too crazy about all of this?” The words slip from Charles's tongue before he has even begun to reflect over what Pierre just said. It's a swift dawning, rising with light and perfect, absolute surprise about the fact Pierre has agreed to help him. 

“Sure, you're crazy as hell right now, but if looking for Romain is what it takes to calm you down, that's what we'll do," Pierre says. He sounds absolutely honest. "So, where are we supposed to look for him?” 

  
"There’s a bar in Nice, close to a homeless shelter where he supposedly went last night and got wasted," Charles reveals to him, prickled by the idea of Romain fumbling around on the streets, drunk and alone. "I also would like to check out the Astrorama park at night. According to a man who met him, Romain said something about wanting to see the glimmering or sparkling lights of Monaco for the last time. What do you think? “ 

“For the last time... What the hell did he mean by that?” Pierre drops his hand from Charles's neck to his hand resting on the center armrest and gently grabs around it. His warm hand heats up the cold clenched to Charles's fingertips, but even as it roasts and melts, Charles feels his fingers curl tighter inside Pierre's hold with a sense of distress. 

"I don’t know." Charles shakes his head briefly. "If he shows up, you should ask him. All I care about is to find out why he’s avoiding me and everyone else. “ 

  
“Can we decide on a deadline?” Pierre checks. “If we haven’t found him by Monday, we give up and we move on. Okay?”   
  
  
“Yeah, sure,” Charles agrees reluctantly, forcing himself to push down the fight that is rising up. He looks at their hands and up at Pierre once more before he pulls his hand away from his and settles it on the steering wheel instead. He hopes Romain's ex-race engineer Gary will call him soon and at least give him a small indication he's not that crazy to think Romain is in Nice. And he still hopes for rain to wash down any moment so they can turn back home, so he doesn't have to pretend he's okay in front of his peers and the click of strangers visiting the go-kart center. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To curious minds: R.E.M - Everybody hurts is the song described above :)  
And thanks for reading this far into my story. More chapters are on the way!


	8. The kiwi and the lighthouse

  
Over at the Go-kart center, everything seems calm. There’s that beautiful bumble-bee orchestra of racing go karts zooming around on the out-door track above an unpleasant humid breeze passing through now and again. The parking lot stands quiet, sparsely crowded with empty cars and trailers at the left end closest to the pits. Pierre stirs his ten-minute old steaming to-go-coffee with a thin wooden stick as he slowly makes his way from Alexis napping sweetly in his stroller over to their trailer, so composed and aloof—unfathomable resistant to Charles's emotional dilemmas, but still. Today he is the one who won an argument. His stance confident, his features blooming with a typical charm fit for a world champion in Formula One. 

As they sit at the very back of the car trailer, sipping warmth from their coffee cups in an okay-silence, Charles notices a very familiar dark blue BMW jeep calmly entering the parking lot from the opposite end and per usual, a subtle wince splutter through him at the sight. Mostly because its design is such an unattractive mess. The whole car is tremendously massive from front to back, from one side to the other, in all directions and inside out, and could easily run over a human lying flat on the ground without even gracing a single hair strand with its abnormal spacious ground clearance. It’s so luxurious and grandiose it can’t help but scream indirectly to the world: Compensating for something! And while it doesn’t have a backseat, a large pickup bed makes up of for that little downside. A perfect car for transporting go-karts on by all means. However, today the pickup bed gapes empty. He turns his eyes over at it every so often, watching it park several meters away and without a shred of doubt, he soon concludes that the driver inside is indeed no other than Brendon Hartley; a previous team mate to both him and Pierre. This means they are at risk of confrontation. Charles glances at his husband beside him, taking note of where he's looking and smiles faintly at how he's holding his paper cup up in the air with the busy go-kart track in its background. He's aiming the phone's camera lens at it with the steadiest of hands, snaps pictures of it with the precision of a number one mechanic changing a tire. 

"Sign it and put it up for sale while you're on it,” Charles proposes to him, thinking of the pair of boxers Lando Norris took from his personal drawer, signed and sold for over 5 000 Euro some time ago, or so the rumor says.   


Pierre snorts with a smile. "Yeah, exactly."   


Then appears the tireless Instagram window expanding across Pierre's screen with a blue prompt of 2334 new likes popping up. Charles darts his gaze curiously in the other direction, but he pretends Brendon isn't there. Pretends he can't see him get out of his car, folding out to the height of Chewbacca with unkept light hair pointing in every direction except for up. Quietly, he sucks coffee into his mouth. The mix of bitterness and rich cream—a nice smoothness as it runs down his throat. According to Pierre (who keeps invisible little notes on Brendon), their old team mate had a baby some time ago, and hopefully he's feeling too exhausted to even realize they are here. 

A sudden sharp whistle-greet from Pierre, bringing more than enough sound over the area. They are caught. Charles considers checking on Alexis, at the same time he gives Brendon a weak nod and gets a lazy hand-in-the-air greeting from him in return. They are really nothing but strangers to each other who happens to live in the same city and have Pierre as a mutual friend. An acknowledging raise of a hand led by polite smiles is their preferred routine, but sometimes even stretching their very, very sporadic meets on Monte-Carlos's streets to 'Hallo!" which the New Zealander always returns with 'G'day mate!'. Their days as colleagues ended last year when Brendon didn’t renew his test driver contract with Ferrari and this season, he’s trying out his skills in Formula E and rumors has it he’s in 3rd place in the overall standings. 

  
"Gasly!" Brendon says aloud, coming towards them, long shorts-wearing legs eating the distance. To some people, Pierre will always be a Gasly. Never mind that they got married a little over four years ago. Never mind that he changed his last name to Leclerc that lovely day. It’s just pure indifference. 

  
Pierre stands to leave, his left hand encircled around his dark brown coffee cup that was now more famous than Charles's cup could ever imagine. With a slow waltzing stride, he walks up to Brendon just a short distance away, cheerful, smiling. Apparently happy to finally have someone else to talk to. 

  
"Put it here," Brendon says after taking Pierre's hand, pulling him in for a brief pat-on-back-hug. He then plants his hands on his own slim hips, both taller and paler than Pierre, commenting with jest, "You’ve gotten shorter mate. What happened to your height increasing shoes?"   


"I think you’re wearing them,” Pierre jokes back. _Height increasing shoes, who of them invented that joke? _   


“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha,” Brendon fake-laughs at him in a friendly way, smiling, and touches his back. “It’s good to see you again. How’s it goin’?”   


“I’m tired from last night. It was fun at the club, but Alexis was awake when I came home and was hard to put to sleep, you know.”   


Charles sighs by himself at himself and at his yesterday’s self—all equally stupid and terrible parents.   
  


"I can see that yeah." Brendon smiles back at Pierre. "Your face screams: 'In need of a child free holiday.'"   


"I think my face says at least fifty of them, thirty in Hawaii and the rest in Florida," Pierre kindly goes along, seeming to enjoy the dispraise.   


"Yeah. It's a tough living man." Brendon's long, lanky arms sweeps up into a folded position across his chest. "We had to work out a system at home to balance it out, so, I wake up looking like _ that _ 90% more often, but it's a lot better for us, as a couple. My wife gets her beauty sleep when I'm home and I get mine working away from home. Has saved us a lot of time and energy, not having to argue about 'who puts Emma to sleep tonight' or who did what when in general."   


"Ah, that’s' really nice," Pierre says, absently stirring his coffee. "How old is Emma?"   


Charles doesn't think Pierre even knows what he thought was so nice about Brendon's system, just trying to be friendly is all because he changed the subject instantly.   


"I forgot," Pierre adds somewhat apologetically.   


"Nah, no worries mate. She's two years and fffou..." Brendon trails off for a second. "No. She's younger. Two years and somewhere around two months old, I think."   


"Not good if you forget her age already!" Pierre laughs a little.   


"Yeah. I'm so bad at remembering people's ages and their birthdays, it's a miracle I still have any friends left. How old is your son again?"   


"Three. Younger than I was when I started karting." Pierre turns so he's facing Charles, the trailer, the go-kart on it and their carrot-sunrise car. "But it's just to see how he likes it and to have fun together." 

  
Charles lifts his butt off the trailer, sensing an inspection incoming and drinks some lukewarm coffee just to have something to do.   


"Nice. Is this his kart yeah?" Brendon does the expected, literally invites himself over to have a look at Alexis's silver and blue mini-kart. Pierre joins him without haste and they have a momentarily survey over it, exchanging tips and information enthusiastically. Charles listens and observes from the other side of the trailer, unable to bring himself out of the bottomless place he's been falling through since. . . And he can't add anything remotely important to their conversation. There's no way. With the slowest of exhales, he looks over at Alexis in the stroller who sleeps wonderfully—peaceful, his pearl green pacifier resting on his bottom lip half-way out of his scarcely open mouth. If he could just take him and go. Do all the preparations, get him excited to drive. But he can't because Alexis will cry and hate him for taking him away from Pierre.   


"It’s very impressive. Has he tried it yet?" Brendon's heartily voice pulls his attention back to the ongoing friendship on the other side. He notices how Brendon is only looking at Pierre. 

  
"Yes, we started to show him to drive one month ago the first time," Pierre explains, his English strangely fluctuating to worse. Could be all the excitement. "He really loves it," he smiles at Brendon.  


"That’s cool." Brendon restlessly puts his hands on his hips again. "To be honest I haven't thought of this at all,  
not since after Emma was born and life's just been revolving around trying to keep her stoked which isn’t the easiest."   


Watching them talk just from a rabbit's leap distance away, sharing friendly looks, smiles and experiences, Charles mind starts to stray and soon wanders through the grimmest collection of memories, and everything is steeped in dull, feverish wash, coding his body into a shiver as the scorching summer heat beds his forehead with moist and breaths hotly at his bare lower legs and arms. A wavy pattern transpose into focus; His six-year old self screams for help, fighting against strong currents pulling him out at sea. A few years later, face to face with a Formula Renault car draped in flames and smoke and he's inside, trying to get out. Later, later; taking a call inside a dark hotel room, hearing his mother whisper faintly that his father passed away, and the sky was sharp and sickly violet. With a blink, he pulls himself out of it, a sudden but relieving shift.   


"Do you think she could enjoy it?" He sees and hear Pierre ask Brendon, standing on the same spot as before, still holding his Insta-famous cup of coffee. Charles doesn't know what the subject is anymore. His eyes lower to his own cup and he drinks what's left in there in one, thirsty gulp. 

"She got a bit of growing up to do first, mate.” Brendon laughs a little. “But yeah. Probably in a few years, I reckon. Once Emma has grown out of her obsession with her mother.”   


At this, Charles mind chimes—_ ding, ding, ding _ — all of him is suddenly focusing on Brendon and he sucks in a fast breath. "Yeah, we have a similar problem with Alexis."   


That's when he finally gets swooped into their circle of friendship. Pierre's the first one to set eyes on him, Brandon next, politely tearing his gaze off from Pierre. It's like they really want him to talk, standing so silent and staring, giving him this once in a life time opportunity, almost.   


"He doesn't like it when I take him away from Pierre." Charles nods lightly at his husband. "And mostly I don't because he gets very upset."   


"Yeah…...Completely true," Pierre agrees lazily. "But I think you give up too easily."   
  


Well, he had to remind him, didn't he? For better or for worse. To love and cherish. 

  
"Nah, don't complain about him, mate," Brendon says and doesn't restrain himself from changing the position of his arms, again. "It's not an easy position to be in. We’ve been trying out some different techniques to help Emma overcome her fear of leaving Sarah and there's one that's worked beautifully so far." He looks straight back at Charles, continuing, "Instead of letting Alexis go back to Pierre, try introducing a new fun activity straight away. It can be anything, something he already likes, but with a twist. Like for me, I invented crazy tubs where Emma gets to bring every toy she wants into the bathtub and have as much bubble bath she likes, and now she prefers my bath times a little bit more and doesn't mind it's just the two of us." 

  
"If I had to pick one activity for you, I think would be good, would be to take Alexis to our park and play with other children." Pierre is now repeating a wish he has shared with Charles before, one that Charles hasn't been able to fulfill what so ever. "I want to remember what's it like to be alone at home, and it doesn't have to be an hour for it to be enough. Twenty minutes is a good time to start with.” 

  
Brendon smiles knowingly at him, “Ah. No day care or nanny I take it?"   
  


“No, and we’re still waiting for a free spot at the day care,” replies Pierre. “They told us he might get one this November. It is a long time and a lot of pressure on me because I’m home all the time with him. A short break would be really nice.” He looks at Charles. 

  
"Yeah, yeah, sure," Charles says, trying to sound out his words with delicate confidence. "We will get there. It's just a phase, like Brendon says." He puts on a smile for show, but Pierre doesn’t replicate. They seem to bathe in an immediate bitterness, like there’s this whole new conflict flooding them, knocking over soldiers, pawns and towers off the chess board and puts them back on square one.   


"Yeah, she’ll be all right,” Brendon smiles at Charles, but it’s Pierre who gets an encouraging light pat on his back. “Well, it’s been fun catching up. I gotta head over to the garages and help Sarah’s nephew fix his go-kart," he decides hastily and reaches out a hand towards Charles over the trailer. They shake hands, a very formal good bye. Then Brendon and Pierre end it all with a bro hug. "Good chat mate. See you around.” He hurries back towards his car and both Charles and Pierre stares after him for a moment. There’s this huge question mark floating around their heads; Why is Brendon heading back to his car? 

  
Suddenly Pierre yells, “His kart broke down again, no!?” 

  
Having just opened up the driver’s door, Brendon beams at them. “It’s a terrible business!” 

  
And Charles watches him dive inside his car, almost to a tippy-toe stand; So, he’s collecting something. His curiosity free falls into an icy plunge and he puts his cup away to grab one of the ratchets straps tying down Alexis’s kart and snaps it loose. _Pfoom_. Even though they aren’t complete novices in parenting, not like they used to be, they are horribly uneven, horribly separated in experience and talent. Up to this point his job as a F1 driver was his main excuse, and it’s been somewhat accepted because Pierre remembers how much of his own life with family and friends had to be sacrificed in favor for his own career. Now it’s probably worth nothing thanks to Brendon: The father of the year and a successful racing driver travelling abroad every month, handing out parenting advice left to right where he sees fit. It annoys Charles immensely. He wishes it didn’t. He tries to put all of his focus on preparing Alexis’s little kart as an attempt of forgetting about it.  


Pierre moves around the trailer, doesn’t talk to him when snapping loose the other strap right beside him---_ pfoom _ _ ! _ _   
_

“So.... Height increasing shoes?” Charles tries to smile, but his cheeks collapse at the attempt.   


“Is my height amusing to you?” Pierre says without looking at him. “It’s not funny. I actually want to be taller.”   
  
  
“Oh, I know, I just wonder who of you came up with that joke.”   
  
  
“It’s not a joke.”   
  
  
“Oh.... So, how much taller do you get by wearing them?” Charles asks, not to tease, just genuinely curious. He had no idea his husband had a pair of. . . A loud clank interrupts his thoughts as Pierre purposefully drops the ratchet and removes himself, the hot naked skin on his arm nudges against his as he does so. He disappears behind Charles somewhere, maybe gone over to Alexis, but Charles doesn’t feel the need to check if he’s right. He proceeds going over the kart by firstly checking the tire pressure. All around the parking lot, thousands of green leaves start to rustle loudly when a heedless wind gust strikes from the west. It swooshes against every object and living being forcefully, panting coarsely into Charles’s right ear and swirls into his unshielded hair like some careless, playful hand. 

  
“Oh no!” Pierre exclaims softly behind him. The hurry and freight in his voice whips a black constricting sash around Charles’s heart on instant. Quickly, he looks over his shoulder and catches the sight of Pierre darting the other way right behind his back. The wind blows at his face harshly, but from what he can detect, Alexis sits safe in his stroller and tiredly suckles on his pacifier. Ease fills him with a calm indigo blue ripple accompanied with light confusion, and he turns his head to see where Pierre took off to and the hell why. He spots him and Brendon a far distance away, chasing some paper-looking objects carouselling around on the ground. He grabs the folded kart stand and lifts it off the trailer, careful not to stare too much at the two paper hunters that still runs around. Careful not to dwell too long on their problem. The wind will die soon, anyway. He bends over the kart stand and pulls up the two arms that’s going to carry the weight of Alexis kart and locks them into place. When he looks up again, Pierre and Brendon have stopped in front of each other, looking like they’re discussing something quietly between them. Pierre looks back at him briefly, crossing his arms and he can discern the outline of a white paper tucked in there, like he’s holding it and crushing it at the same time. The next moment, both of them are talking to each other again, but Brendon is gesturing with his hands more and makes Charles think he’s frustrated. 

That is strange. It’s also not his problem. He goes back to assembling the rest of the stand with a good view over Alexis who’s watching him tiredly in a rather content way, and luckily doesn’t seem to mind Pierre’s sudden absence at all. 

  
"Come on mate!” He hears Brandon shout behind him. 

  
“Charles!” That’s Pierre’s voice calling out to him. Charles draws a deep breath and faces their direction entirely. Pierre is coming over with a paper flailing in the air and with Brendon following behind, holding a small bundle of paper securely in his hand. 

  
“I’m fucking serious, Pierre! You’ll get fined!” Brandon closes in on him with long, quick strides. "Prison!" 

  
Pierre spins around, faces him and yells, “But I cannot believe you! I cannot believe this SHIT is confidential! What if...”

  
Brandon makes that keep-it-down gesture at him and Pierre goes silent, obeying at once, because truthfully, he was never able to assert dominance in their friendship, and probably never will. 

  
From distance, Charles can see Brandon's mouth move, but his voice is low enough for the breeze and the go-karts to drench it. Charles doesn’t actually feel like involving himself at all, confidential or any other kind of secret. But Pierre has rarely used that anxious tone before on someone else, like the tone he would always get running with him through the dark catacombs underneath a small ruin near Jules Bianchi’s house as teenagers. He thinks he must have run into something really dark, something concrete to feel worried over. Another beat, and Pierre suddenly pushes Brandon backwards with this crinkled paper dropping between their bodies like a rock. No sound but the throbs of heartbeats connects Charles with the world that moment, wavering mentally between stay or rush over—and a few seconds of that, then Pierre simply turns his back on his friend and retreats. Charles can see the full-on annoyance frozen in place on his husband’s face, watching him coming over. He moves in a certain way which reminds Charles of every generic douche-bag he’s seen on television, and if Pierre wants to play tough with him too—_ come on, have at it. _

Half way, Pierre makes a quick check behind him, but Brandon has almost reached the entrance to the main building. The sound of a heavy door slamming shut makes Pierre turn his head again. He doesn’t stare a second longer though, because no one is there to glare resentfully at anymore and that glare ends up catching Charles next as Pierre closes in on him. 

  
“Pierre...” Charles doesn’t understand why it’s just that one word coming through all of his thoughts bombarding his vocal cord. He tries again, “What was—” 

  
“No, it’s all right,” Pierre says seriously. “It was a misunderstanding.” 

  
It’s unnervingly quiet between them as Pierre comes up to him. Charles wishes he knew what to say right now. He opens his mouth. He’s about to say something useless, like _ Shit happens _ , or _ If you say so _, but thankfully Pierre starts talking again. 

  
“We should take a trip,” he says, looking off somewhere pass Charles. “Just the two us before your vacation is over.” 

  
Charles looks at him quietly from the side at first. The whole trip idea surprises him, and he’s uncertain if they should just pack their bags on a whim with all things considered. 

  
“I have only like five days left, so... And I have a lot of preparations to do before leaving next Friday.” 

  
“How about this weekend?” Pierre says hollowly. “How about we take a private jet over to Portugal tonight?” 

  
Charles sighs. “Yeah, if there had been someone to look after Alexis it might had worked.” And less importantly, but still very important; Romain. No one else is going to be looking for him in his stead. No one else cares. “My mother can’t take him, she’s gone with her sister to Italy,” he adds so Pierre doesn’t have to make that suggestion. 

  
Pierre finally looks him in the eyes, stiffly, voice quieter and painfully fissured, “Okay. I accept that.” 

  
Accept? Does it mean he gives up? Or the other way around? Not knowing exactly what the significance of ‘accept’ is in this situation makes a strange itch in the back of Charles’s throat, reminding him of the many times he’d discover that statement to be a blunt lie. He observes Pierre a short while longer, sees him stand beside him all quiet, stiff, gulping down breaths and staring off into God knows where with quivering muscles under his eyes, and has a drastic want of leaving Monaco tonight. He's genuinely upset. Damn Brendon and his secret papers. Because it can’t be anything else, can it?   


“What's going on?” He asks Pierre gently, backing his behind against the side of the trailer and leans into Pierre’s field of view. 

  
“I’m tired.” But it comes out too fast, too sharp—more likely a lie. 

  
Charles inches a bit closer to him, focusing his sight on those tiny jittering muscles beneath Pierre’s eyelids. “You’re tired?” 

  
“Why, you can’t tell how fucking tired I am?” Pierre says, looking at him suspiciously as he swallows and then exhales sharply through his nose. 

  
“I can tell you're upset.” Charles let's him know softly, but Pierre adamantly refuses to give in. They stand like that for a moment, but nothing changes, and frustration begins to curl itself into a searing chunk inside of Charles. Sighing, he asks carefully, “Are you okay?” 

  
“I’m just tired,” Pierre replies emotionlessly, staring off into the distance. “So... tired of your questions.” 

  
“Yeah.” There’s no chance of finding out the real reason why Pierre is upset; Charles can tell from experience. His wall is for now way too thick and relentless. He gives Pierre a caress on the back, below his shoulder blades, softly saying, “Once we’re finished here, I can take Alexis out for a walk so you can have some alone time at home. But...” He makes a pause, imaging Alexis’s riot, but pushes that worry back. “I mean, if you feel like it’d be worth it.” 

  
“Thanks.” Pierre’s throat jerks as if he’s trying to swallow, as if stifling a wave of relief and tears while simultaneously and ruthlessly jamming every emotion he feels right now inside a cage. His stiff features seem to get a slight release as he opens his mouth next, “I really... I think I need to have some... seriously passionate... sex, you know?” 

  
Charles can’t help but smile. And he thinks to himself, he really needs that too. Because it’s been a damn dry week—misery. “Well, maybe after we've put Alexis to sleep tonight, you can do me.” 

  
“Sure, but then I’m going to have to ask you to keep it down.” Pierre looks at him more laid-back now. 

  
“That’s gonna be a nightmare.” Charles feels his phone beginning to pulse out provoking vibrations inside his pocket soundlessly as his heart begins to speed up. 

  
_Bzzz-Bzz-Bzzzz _ _ ! _

Stepping closer, Pierre runs a couple of fingers down his arm. “I was thinking about that and I think the best way would be...the hot tub.” 

_ Bzzz-Bzz-Bzzzz _ _ ! _

“Hmm...” Charles grins as he silently pleads with his phone to stop. 

_ Bzzz-Bzz-Bzzzz _ _ ! _

And they just stand there staring at each other. 

_ Bzzz-Bzz-Bzzzz _ _ ! _

_Bzzz-Bzz-Bzzzz__! __Damn it!_   


“Sorry, someone’s calling me.” Charles has to break their moment, surrendering to his phone and his duties. He takes his phone out quickly, checks the phone number showing up on the screen and it doesn’t look familiar. It’s foreign, but neither Italian or French: the two countries he usually gets phone calls from apart from Monaco. He looks at Pierre again. “I’ll be right back.” 

  
“Right,” Pierre mumbles, like a verbal shrug.   
  
  
Charles walks to stand in the shadow by their car. There he lowers himself down to a crouch by Alexis in his stroller and turns his eyes down on his phone. He lets it ring one more time before he answers and decides English is probably the better language to use in this case. “Charles speaking. Who is this?"   
  
  
Alexis shows him his husky plushie quietly and nicely. With a small smile, Charles shakes paw with it. 

"This is Gary," answers the person on the other end without hesitation, his voice carrying a fine-tuned British accent. "The Gannon Gary," he adds calmly, phrasing his name backwards for some reason. "Race-Engineer, Haas," he clarifies and goes silent. 

  
"Oh, good!" Charles quickly fills the pause. But the timing was pretty bad. What he could expect out of this call was hard to know now. Without all the stress he had to go through to get here, he'd been more well prepared to pray and wrench information out of this man. "So, what do you think of my email?" He says, keeping his voice low, leaning his back against the car. 

  
"Could you have made it any more unnerving?" Gary sounds almost a bit baffled. 

  
Charles doesn't know what to say. Alexis removes one of his shoes in the meantime and hands it to him. 

  
"Smoking, malnourished... Homeless—" Gary pauses to cough loudly, once."—What else? What more do you have on Romain?" 

  
"No, that's basically it." 

  
Gary sighs. And Alexis hands over his dark grey blanket to Charles and his Ferrari cap next. 

  
"I'm certain that was him," Charles presses slowly, pointing at the busy race track to distract Alexis with something else besides trying to hand him all of his things. 

  
"He had a, he had a..." There's a pause that gets filled up by a familiar noise of a hydraulic pump whirring somewhere distantly on Gary's side. A few seconds later it stops and Gary inhales. "He had a very militant approach against most of the things you listed in your email. Most of all he understood that to have his life working well, there was one key condition: To have self-awareness and self-judgement working together. That’s why I can’t buy your story, mate. Too unlikely."   


Charles heart sinks like a stone. "How... I mean, there are other people who's seen him in Nice. I'm not the only one." 

  
"Maybe there are people who wants to believe they did. Ask around a little more, I'm sure you'll eventually realize it's nothing but a bloody rat race. I had to come to terms with that. We all did here at Haas, long ago. Romain is gone and very much so.”   


Oh God. His words. Just the thought of everyone moving on makes Charles heart pound.   


"I-I honestly saw Romain in Nice."   


"Romain? Again?" Pierre, the eaves dropper, is coming over to them.   
  
  
“Hang on Gary.” Charles looks up at Pierre. “It’s Romain’s ex-race engineer.”   
  
  
With just one short, cold glare and shrug, Pierre tries to play cool about it without succeeding. Then he easily lifts Alexis out of the stroller, puts him down and takes his little hand in is his, giving him a happy suggestion to go watch the karts wrooming around the track. Then they begin walking towards the race track, leaving Charles alone with his stupid phone call and a bunch of toddler belongings scattered by his feet.   
  
  
Charles drops down on his bum, knees pointing to the sky. “Okay. Talk to me Gary... Tell me what you know.”   


Gary clears his throat. “So, the last time I spoke to Romain was back in July 2020, right before he left Silverstone, but why he left; we don't know, Charles. I'm sorry."   


“I know, Günther told me. But what I don’t understand is why you lied. It shouldn’t make any difference if it was an injury or if he left without explaining, no? And... I mean, his contract with Haas got extended with two years the week before Silverstone. I could tell he was happy when he told me about it.”   
  
  
“We may as well get that one out of the way now,” Gary says methodically, and then there’s a muffled voice talking back in the background for a couple of seconds in which Charles closes his eyes and dips his head. Suddenly Gary’s voice speaks directly into his phone, “Yeah, what’s the phrase? ‘The devil’s in the details.’ One week after Romain signed his renewed contract, he bought himself out of it.”   
  
  
"What the fuck... I don't know what... I can't— Charles takes a deep breath before he sharply sighs out, “Why?” No one had mentioned that detail before.   
  
  
"Calm yourself down," Gary hurries to say in that calm race-engineer way of his. "He never stated his reason to anyone. Everything happened during a four-hour period of time on that Friday and things got really chaotic to be frank about it when Romain demanded to have his contract terminated in the middle of his free practice round. I asked him to walk me through it, but he wasn’t in the mood to reflect over his decision which surprised me a great deal. I’d say he acted ‘out of character’ in moral sense, and a little like he had lost his purpose of living so to speak.”   
  
  
Charles had felt plenty of unease before because of Romain’s disappearance. But never unease like this. “Yeah, I was...” He hesitates to go on, tilts his head back against the passenger door and stares up at the infinite and paradoxical blueness above, just to think. To breath. Gary isn’t talking either, probably trying to decide if he should just end their call. There always was one image in particular on constant playback in some locker inside Charles’s mind, glossy and hazy by default, of Romain and he considers to slash that locker open for once. Out of options. Desperate. It’d wither and they’d slice up all of it, but it might be enough for him to get closer to the heart of this dense labyrinth.   
  
  
“I saw him talking on his phone outside your garage that morning and he looked very miserable to me,” he says without taking his eyes off the sky. “I was thinking nothing of it really, but now I think with the things you’re saying, that he definitely received some bad news. Sometimes I remember when he talked on his phone, he looked bothered and super serious, I mean, that’s basically why I didn’t react to it and I had too little time to stop to talk with him...” 

Guilt suddenly lodges itself through the weak shield Charles is mentally wearing and folds out with cold spikes sharp as hail to skin. He should have stopped that day at Silverstone. He should have followed Romain in the park. More so; he’s a stupid idiot for doing neither.   
  
  
“What’s the real reason he left?” He asks quietly, closing his eyes.   
  
  
Silence.   
  
  
“Was he. . . sick?”   
  
  
More silence.   
  
  
“Why is he avoiding everyone?”   
  
  
Gary remains silent. 

  
“I can’t—you have to say something here!”   
  
  
“I hear you, mate. Take it easy.” The gentle calmness in Gary’s voice knows no limit; it settles a special kind of empathy in and around you, making you feel like all is okay, the world is safe and you’re safe. But Charles’s world is already burning from the ground up and everything seems too hard to save.   
  
  
“Sorry.” Charles can hear his own voice crack.   
  
  
“No worries. Here’s the reality—”   
  
  
No. 

  
“—I’ve met a lot of people that leave no stone unturned when looking for answers but what I see here is a guy who keeps turning same stones repeatedly and don’t get me wrong Charles, but it’s a wild goose chase. The sooner you can accept he’s not coming back, the better. “   
  
  
Not true.   
  
  
“I admire your commitment. You’re a great guy. Talented as hell.”   
  
  
“Thanks,” Charles chokes out dryly.   
  
  
“Yep. I'm Sorry, but have to cut it here I'm afraid. Busy days here at Haas right now. Good luck Charles."   
  


Charles wants to scream to Gary every reason they can’t end this call yet. Then he wants to ignite an atom bomb larger than the moon and have him along with everyone else on this stupid planet removed in a horrific lava hot blast. He can’t do any of that. Reeling back his patience out of a corner inside of the ongoing thunderstorm in his head, he suddenly feels able to tackle saying good bye in a friendly way.   
  
“Thanks for calling me and for sharing all this with me. I should... Yes, move on and good luck in Belgium. Have fun storming the chicanes." Without meaning one word he just said, Charles hangs up. And then, because he’s such great parent, he kicks at the stroller and sends it tumbling over on the side with a thump onto the ground. Gary was some sort of last hope. That one lighthouse furthest away shining sanguinely with the longest of interludes. Although a fragment of revelation appeared, the bigger revelation seems to be that he got it all wrong. The slow coming and vanishing beam of light cutting through the dark fog was really saying: . . . . M o o o v e o n . . . . . . . . M o o o v e o n . . . . . . MOVE ON!  
  
  
  
\----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to YOU who read this far into my story! I hope you enjoy. My goal is to post a new chapter once every week, and most likely updates will happen on Sundays. 
> 
> Can't thank enough for all the kudos and comments some of you've left! <3<3


	9. How a wish works

"So, when did you... When did you come out?" Brendon's nephew Hunter asks as he and Charles sit on a small grass patch in creaky beach chairs next to the kids' karting practice-ground, tossing a vigilant small talk ball between them that only now warped into something heavier. Charles sat down a short while ago before this guy showed up, after bringing Alexis's kart up here, after assisting Pierre for a few minutes, but recognized it wasn't the right time to do anything worth a while for his husband. Winter had hardened beyond the point of ice age and teeth rattling. Predictable cold shoulder Pierre but also perfect parent Pierre in a wonderful mix, is helping their son figuring out how to steer his slow-moving kart around a couple of blue cones. It looks fun and promising, and there's just them apart from that one kid pedaling his BMX up and over various obstacles on the other end. 

A debate fires up in Charles's mind of whether that email he wrote to Pierre yesterday can in anyway be helpful to their current situation, however, comes to an abrupt halt because of the unexpected question thrown at him from the guy sitting beside him, wearing a 'Climate change is real' t-shirt to a go-kart track. Hunter, was it? Looking no older than Charles little brother. 

"Officially? I think... a few years ago," Charles says, brushing off some bug inspecting a crease on his charcoal grey shorts. 

"Uhuh..." Hunter hums in an absent-minded way, his face about to fuse with his phone from staring so closely at it. " Sorry, um, when was that exactly?" He asks a moment later. Charles turns his head at him only to stare off at the row of garages visible in the background beyond the start and finish line, wondering if there's any chance of Brendon missing his nephew. 

Hunter looks away from his phone and they look at each other—he frowns in a speculating way for some reason, saying, "I asked you something." 

Charles pulls his right foot up to rest it on his other leg, releasing a puff of breath. "I mean, officially coming out... I can't remember the year. It was a big mess, anyway, so..." Then he wished had said something less alarming about his coming out story, because he honestly hates how it all went down. Talking about it makes the whole world sink in on him, like it literally nearly did that day. 

"Wow...You’re so casual about it.” Hunter turns his attention back to his phone, asking nothing and of course, it must mean he already knew what that mess was. Seems like he just blew up his own pretense-game.   
  
  
When people act and pretend uninformed around a juicy slice of gossip-cake old enough to grow mold just to try get even more cream out of it, Charles mentally marks them as potential troublemakers and usually never plays along. Saying nothing in return, he looks on in silence as Pierre plays chase with Alexis coming after him in his little kart, both laughing. A crimson warmth expands like a fuzzy balloon inside of him at the sight, forcing the midnight-coldness crawl into a hiding. Soon, Pierre tries to encourage Alexis through the cone serpentine as the chase goes on, but their son goes full throttle right into them. One by one, knocking them out of his way as he yells out firearm-like sound effects and then finally catching Pierre—bumping into his feet, screaming in laughter. And a smile tugs at the corners of Charles's mouth, but his face feels awkward and stiff. 

"You came out as gay, right?" Hunter doesn't only sound bored, but cautious somehow in spite of carelessly tilting his phone enough for the screen to come faintly visible to Charles and shows the google search he’s done on his name. 

“Not sure. It’s a bit hazy to be honest," Charles reveals without revealing anything and Hunter sputters out a loud laughter. Its intensity surprised him, then it sorts of alters into a grandmother-like cackle. Charles looks down on his hands, squeezes and rubs his cold fingers slowly and gets fixed on twisting and turning his wedding ring almost instantly, pulling it up over his knuckle and back down again. Twist, up, down. Twist, up, down. Nothing he ever have done before, but suddenly, and it gives him some weird release moving it over the ridge of his knuckle. Tension goes flying. What an absurd, addictive feeling. 

"Maaan!" Hunter exclaims full of eye rolling, throwing his head back against the chair. "If you’re shagging Pierre Gasly, that'd make you aaat least somewhat gay, yeah? You can't argue with me on that." 

"Obviously," Charles replies numbly, securing his wedding ring at the base of his finger and looks up at his family enjoying life without him. "I mean, attraction for me goes both ways. So, I'd say somewhat gay, and straight." 

"Bi," Hunter corrects him needlessly. 

Charles nods. "Yes, bisexual, gay, straight, a successful F1 driver..." ..._worthless parent, useless partner. . . __Stupid. __. ._   


Hunter turns a glare at him. "Is that funny? Am I supposed to be laughing?" 

His reaction stirs up one bubble of borderline-amusement in Charles and a light snicker comes out his nose like a snort. With that said, he says no more and pushes himself out of his low beach chair to a stand. Where ever his patience went; into a barrier, sunken by an ice berg, this is it for him. He passively starts moving away from there, sinking his right hand into pant pocket as he traces the edge of the small practice track and happens to spot Alexis getting out of his kart ahead all on his own meanwhile Pierre is looking down on his phone nearby. Charles isn't sure how he’s supposed to react. Should he be praising Alexis for being brave and doing it successfully, or scold him for doing it unsupervised? Even though his pace quickens in slight apprehension, it’s a three-year old on the loose after all, he’s hoping for Pierre to jump into action on this one real, real soon so he doesn’t unintentionally make the wrong call. Come on Pierre, look up! 

"Hey Charles! Are you always this stupid or are you just making a special effort today!?” Hunter yells cockily at him from behind. “In fact, you're proof that every good gene pool has a shallow end!”   


This outburst of silly insults filling up the hot air snatches Pierre’s attention away from his tap and scroll lightning fast, about to put his nose into it; the parting of his mouth telltales he is strongly urging to bite back and drawing from experience, Charles knows he can at times even crack his knuckles to show how fearless he is. Charles won’t give Hunter the favor of acknowledge one slight, far more concerned about Alexis wandering towards the big race track this moment. He calls out Alexis’s name and a rapid propel of: Shit! No! Alexis! Comes flying out his husband’s mouth, the wave of realization seeming to hit him like three separate bombshells. Pierre dashes off after their son in an explosive rush, as if this was a matter of life or death. He seems more connected with the fear of losing Alexis than what Charles senses within himself, but it goes without saying there came and went a chill thread of fear within him too. He slows down to a slow walk, releasing a defeated breath. He can’t phantom how to match that kind of absolute, astonishing father-instinct that his partner possess. In many ways his confidence sort of blurs, becomes a tiny twinkle by watching the easy, swift approach from Pierre who catches Alexis from behind halfway to the edge of the race track and scoops him up, cradling him like an overgrown puppy. And sweet little Alexis lets out a mild laughter fused with many loud ‘No’s as they journey back over the lawn to the safe kid’s area. Charles imagines himself in Pierre’s shoes right then and God, he hates that vision flooding in; Alexis screaming, crying and kicking. So, this is truly the better outcome then. . . He walks the last meters to meet up with them by Alexis’s kart.

"Are we done? Shall we pack up and go home?" He asks. Whirls of worry and spite pounces his chest by the half-hearted shrug Pierre makes. _Still cold. Still Indifferent_. 

"Whatever," is all Pierre says next as he puts Alexis on the ground, neither praising or scolding him.   


“Do you wanna drive your kart back to the car, Alexis?” Charles offers. 

"I want that one,” Alexis says pointing at the other kid. He must be talking about the bike. They never got him a bike for his third birthday last winter because he pointed out an electric white and black Mercedes at the toy store and refused to be talked into anything else.   
  
  
"Shall we get him a bike? I mean, as a Christmas gift?" Charles looks to Pierre to take this into discussion, but Pierre doesn’t look back into his eyes and doesn’t talk. All of him so blank and cold it burns. Immediate frustration grabs Charles and he wants to punch him in the face that moment for being this coldhearted towards him. He hates this, but he loves him whenever he’s not like this and reminding himself of it, the monster inside of him shrinks into a squeaking mouse. 

"Daddy, look!” Alexis cuts in, pulling at Pierre’s jeans leg hurriedly, tilting his head back and looks up at him with a furrow on his brow. “I want to get one.” 

Pierre crouches down in front of Alexis, touching his upper arm and runs his hand down to his tiny hand. "Only if you promise me something." 

"Um...Yes, I can,” Alexis asserts with outmost certainty. “I'm a good boy." 

"Yeah, a pretty big one as well.” Pierre smiles at him softly, taking his hand in his and then leads him over to the go-kart. “Here,” he says, patting on the seat. “Drive this thing all the way back to the car and Charles will get you a much cooler bike than that one for Christmas."   


Charles doesn’t answer. He knows he’s supposed to chime in, show he’s all onboard, that there aren’t any problems with Pierre’s decision at all. But somehow, he can’t. Instead, he watches on while Pierre helps Alexis get back into his kart while feeling an odd sense of shame stack itself on top of his leaning Tower of Struggles.   


"Cool! I want cool... A... I want um...” Alexis goes on excitedly as his daddy buckles the little belt going over his waist, seeming to look for the word ‘bike’ in his vocabulary. But he can’t find it. “A big one! this big...” He shows between his arms stretched out as far as possible, then turns around in all directions. “Chaas!”   
  
  
But Charles doesn’t answer. He tries to smile at his son, but whatever it is he feels on his face, it’s not a smile but merely a twitch in his left cheek.   
  
  
"So, ready to drive then?” Pierre says to Alexis. “Remember which foot is the gas?”   
  
  
Alexis looks down on his feet and points at his right leg.   
  
  
Pierre touches his left leg, asking, “And this one?" 

"I drive there,” says Alexis quickly, gesturing at the other kid and pushes the gas. The kart accelerates into Pierre’s foot and stops with a slight jump. 

Pierre laughs. "Careful!” And Alexis chuckles with him. Their smiles and laughter, so wonderful otherwise, makes Charles turn around with a growing crack in his heart. Taking a deep breath, he leaves to collect the kart-stand standing on the grass several meters from there.   
  
  
“This way,” his husband says to Alexis a bit louder. “No bike otherwise."   
  
  
They don’t walk as a family when heading back to the parking lot, like they should, as they would other days. If Charles’s body was a machine, it’s like the gears inside of him grind awfully slow, his muscles rusty and forbids his body to keep up with Pierre and Alexis.   


* * *

Sitting in the car on the way home to Monte-Carlo, Charles and Pierre still don’t speak with each other, and Charles finds himself absentmindedly folding and unfolding his freezing fingers on the center armrest repeatedly. To fill up the silence they have the radio playing on low and their son is helping out by talking with everyone about that one-time Chaas promised him a bike, and about all thousands of cones he destroyed with his kart. He is in a very happy mood. Sometimes his babble brings a soft laughter out of Pierre. A smile pushes at Charles’s cheeks at best.   
  
It’s been forty-eight hours and thirty-eight...thirty-nine... tick. . . tick. . . tick. . . seconds now since he caught sight of Romain inside that park over in Nice. Charles knows because he keeps checking the hands on his watch compulsively as he drives, as he listens to Pierre whistling along to a catchy summer hit, as their son gets absorbed by a cartoon movie in the back, as he wishes—Wishes to God for heaven to open up at once and cry heavily for hours. He is supposed to take Alexis out on a walk to someplace for at least twenty minutes when arriving at home, _but not if it rains._ And he will sit here like the idiot he is and:_ wish, wish, wish,_ the entire trip back to MC for rain to start coming down and it has to be the intense kind or he might have to head outside either way, dragging along a furious toddler through puddles and mud. He truly doesn’t want to push them through a struggle like that. And sometimes nothing but a massive amount of downpour can fix a situation, doesn’t matter if it’s during a race or if it’s about hanging out with your Pierre-obsessed son single-handedly. He checks the time again, drops his left hand from ten to seven on the steering wheel so he can’t see his dumb Hublot watch and then turns his face at Pierre to see what his current mood is, sensing his heart twist into a burning knot as it bangs. The song is fading out. Pierre stops whistling and yawns like he has no care in the world.   
  


"Guess what?” He hears Pierre say once he’s gone back to look at the road, “I asked your older brother if they can babysit Alexis over the weekend, aaaand...” 

  
  
"He said yes?” Charles guesses, unsure why he opened his mouth. This is not a conversation he wants to have.   
  
  
Pierre smiles. “He did. Good, huh?”   
  
  
Charles drops everything he’s mentally holding. Oh. My. God. His lungs deflate through a nasal exhale. “But they have never looked after him before. Wha—What if it’s too much for Alexis? What it if he gets traumatized?”   
  
  
And then; what about Romain? Going abroad means no looking—Pierre never meant to help him out and he sure as hell didn’t accept anything. A boiling hot shroud disperse in his chest, shortens the extent of his breathing mechanism and snakes aggressively into his bigger muscles, contriving tension, and it throws him off. He can’t—repeatedly—He can’t.   


"It will be fine. Take it easy,” Pierre says with less sympathy than the situation is in demand for. Apparently recognizing he’s frustrated, but doesn’t care enough. “Maybe your brother will get traumatized, but we can live with that,” Pierre goes on just as mindlessly, turning to look into the backseat. “Right, Alexis?" 

"How the hell... I thought... I don't know.” Charles hears himself stupidly throw words out as he fights a nasty urge to shout at Pierre. He swallows some kind of horrible dryness and says, “I thought we weren't going." 

"Because I wanted to surprise you...” 

  
_Surprise me? _An avalanche of fuming thoughts tumbles down from Charles mind into his throat, but he doesn’t let one single out his mouth because he’s tired of messing everything up. If he hadn’t already felt so guilty, he might had said something. He swallows it all and stares at the side of a huge truck driving on his left with the message: #EyesOnTheMoon printed on it. Right, because now they are trying to grow plants up there.   
  
  
"I think we should stay at the same hotel as last time,” Pierre says. “It’s the closest to the beach and they have a free surfboard rental." 

"Tha—” Charles cuts himself off as he turns to look at his stubborn husband. “I mean, the weather might get bad tonight,” he suggests, sounding amazingly idiotic, but can’t stop himself. 

"I don't care." Pierre taps and taps on the screen of his phone. 

"No,no. Pierre, you can't say that.” Charles will have him know. “If it gets too bad, the private jet won’t take off." There. 

"Oh no... I accidently booked a room with separate beds,” Pierre says sarcastically. “What a tragedy." 

"Oh my God...” Charles sighs out quietly, then continues firmly and undaunted, “It's not that I don't like the idea, I actually really want to spend a weekend alone with you somewhere, but there's too much going on in my life right now." 

Pierre lowers his eyebrows. "Like what?" 

"Am I allowed to say I still miss Romain? You know I was planning on looking for him this weekend.”   
  
  
Pierre says nothing but turns his head away scowling.   
  
  
“Talk about pleasing,” Charles says bitterly. “Forcing me to delete his phone number and now you wanna prevent me from looking for him?"   


A large tunnel swallows them: the precise light of the sun gets replaced by swift shadowy strings and pasty yellowness. Charles checks on Alexis through the mirror. He can see him sucking on his pacifier, looking mostly up at the LCD hanging from the roof with his husky plushie tight squeezed under his left arm, like he's protecting it from the growling wolf couple in the front. Charles makes a silent promise to not raise his voice---to not get that angry with Pierre so that it brings tears upon Alexis's face.   


"Sorry,” Pierre says finally, his voice thick with emotions. 

Charles takes in this quietly. It takes him an extra beat to realize that by _ sorry _ he probably meant regretting this whole conflict about Portugal. "It's fine,” he replies. “But you keep interfering and now I—" 

  
"I'm not interfering,” Pierre interrupts. “Don't say that. I'm asking, because I can't read your fucking mind!” 

"Yes... And I really want to look for Romain,” Charles tells him quietly, feeling so exposed and mean. The bright sunlight bombs inside as the tunnel ends abruptly   
  
  
Not a second later, Pierre says emotionally, “If it’s anyone interfering, it’s him. But okay then.”   
  
  
Okay, Charles mouths silently. Pierre doesn’t say anything, but he can tell he’s mad. Mad because he’s obsessed with Romain’s disappearance _for no reason, _saying fucked-up things, or just being a generally uncompromising partner. Pierre doesn’t say anything else. He just turns away and sits there next to him. Now he’s the one staring out at the wheat fields and Charles is the one facing him, wanting him to look at him. He puts his right hand on Pierre’s leg, try to pretend things are okay, pretend he’s not stupid.   
  
  
“So,” he starts softly, “How come you want to leave Monaco so suddenly?" 

"I'm tired.” Pierre’s voice is flat like the road they drive on.

  
Charles sighs. "Yeah, but what else? Be honest with me." 

  
"Well, what I really want is to hang out with you alone,” Pierre says, his real feelings finally emerging. “I-I want us to have sex more often and I miss doing things together without having to keep Alexis in mind all the time."   


The full weight of what Pierre is saying slams into Charles’s chest and crushes him under the massive hardness of a C1 F1 tire. Why didn’t it hit him sooner? Who made him this blind? He imagines their conversation at the parking lot. Is this what _ tired _ meant all the time—longing for them to be alone together? 

"So, it has nothing to do with Romain, or Brendon’s papers?" His voice sounds so incredulous, stuttering. 

"Nothing what so ever,” Pierre says, putting his hand on top of Charles’s and digs his warm fingers between his cold ones. That warmth is so tempting. Charles falls into it rapidly, curls his fingers and locks their hands together as he watches the trees lining the road, the birds dancing up out of a field, the clouds in the sky, the back of a lemon-colored Ferrari thundering in front their sunrise Lamborghini. He feels Pierre’s thumb knead over the ridge of his hand while seconds flies by. Pierre means him well. And perhaps this is him wanting to confess his feelings, only it’s not a trip to a Coldplay concert in Rome but a child-free weekend in Portugal instead.   
  
  
They both seem to transcend the winter in unison while a tropical-like song emerges from the speakers, coiling in and around them with positive vibes. Charles watches from the corner of his eye as Pierre drops his Red Bull cap to his lap, ruffles the long locks of hair curtaining his forehead, sits back and draws a slow breath. “I really want to tell you what his papers are all about, but... Yeah, I can’t risk ending up in prison,” he says, exposing nothing new.   


Charles thinks about Brendon possessing something confidential enough to warrant fines or prison. He thinks about Pierre’s reaction when finding out about them. Immense unsettled feelings and taking it out on everyone that made no sense from outside.   
  
  
"Yeah, I know,” he accedes. “But even if you did, we could make it work somehow. Like, I’d come for weekly visits every Tuesday and bring you cakes filled with Red Bull cans."   


There’s a sound coming out of Pierre, like an amused breathy snort. Charles smiles. He snatches a glimpse of his husband and there’s a smile on his face too, going weaker, but it was there and he enjoys the memory of seeing it as he drives on. Portugal then? Is there any reason why he should keep resisting? It’s not a bad destination to pick, although knowing Pierre who’s overly fond of romantic places such as the Maldives and Italy, it does surprise him slightly. Portugal. . .   


"So, are we going or do you wanna stay at home?" Pierre asks, his voice carrying carefulness. 

"Aaah...” Charles hesitates, because one thing is still bothering him. “I’m thinking we can catch an early flight back home on Sunday in that case and spend some time checking out the leads I have on Romain before picking up Alexis. How does it sound?" 

"I did see this one coming and I really don't care, as long as the trip happens tonight.” Pierre is looking at their entwined hands resting on his thigh as he speaks, sliding his palm down over Charles’s fingers and retreats slowly back halfway up to his elbow. He rubs and heats his skin with his whole hand, then with his nails and with the back of his fingers and continuously loops between the three at random. Charles yearns for more on his side, aching with desperation for another caress and another. But Pierre can’t hear his wordless pleads and intertwines their fingers again, perfectly, zealously; like two Lego pieces. “What’s wrong with your fingers? They are really cold," Pierre says next, his voice genuinely concerned. 

"I think nothing." Charles shrugs, all about just wanting to soak up this wonderful moment with him. It gets colder suddenly when Pierre removes his hand, and an unknown compulsion makes Charles withdraw his own to the center armrest. 

“It might be nothing, but my personal trainer told me a few years ago it can be a sign of a vitamin deficiency.” Pierre pushes down his moist Red Bull cap that smells of sweat over Charles head and leans into the back next, fetching Alexis’s dinosaur-blanket that he squeezes in behind Charles’s neck and then leans over, coming with his arm around Charles chest. Recognizing the unfaltering determination in Pierre, Charles kindly tilts forward for him so that he can move the blanket around his back and over his other shoulder.   
  
  
Once the soft blanket hangs upon Charles’s boiling hot shoulders, turning his whole back into an organic oven, Pierre sits back looking at him like he’s suppressing a laugh for a second. “Woah that’s a very good look...Very nice. Do you feel warmer?”   


One look at him is all it takes for Charles—there’s not a single speckle of seriousness involved in this at all. It’s disarming in its absurdity and tiny, whimsical bubbles floats like rockets up out of somewhere in his belly. For the first time in a while. . . a laughter takes him, not a loud one, not a chaotic mess but a soft and light one and he shakes his head at Pierre’s question.   


“How the hell did you finish middle school? My whole body is melting except from my hands.”   
  
  
Pierre pulls the blanket off him slowly, laughing a little. “Actually, I’m the most intelligent person I’ve ever met so, you’re in very good hands darling—Warm hands too.” He turns away, looking between their seats and hands Alexis his blanket with a soft: “Are you okay, butterfly?” Whatever Alexis replies, it’s not in verbal words and turning forward again, Pierre sits back in his seat and folds his hand around Charles’s resting between them. “Let's get some sushi or something. I'm starving." 

"Chaas..." A small voice speaks up from the backseat, surprising Charles who isn’t used to hear his nickname being used inside the car. Normally their son favorizes Pierre while driving around together. What might he want or need from him? 

"Yes Alexis?” Charles responds in the kindest tone he can evoke.   


"I not want sussi.”   
  
Charles looks to Pierre first, takes note he’s checking his phone very intensely and wears a very unusual serious frown on his brow, but gives no inclination of caring about their son’s complaint. Since it’s Friday and all, Alexis can see himself very lucky he addressed him and not Pierre. Charles takes his eyes off the road to look up in the rear-view, whispering loudly, “Ice cream then?" Through the mirror he can see Alexis nodding in delightful agreement. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To you passing through: Hunter is a made up nephew to Brandon! :)  
Thanks for reading and hope you enjoy!


	10. Beloved Ice Cream

~~~   
  
But the best about having ice cream on Fridays after karting practice isn't squeezing your hand around that fragile, crunchy waffle cone until it cracks or to dip your warm lips into that sweet, creamy softness laced with a bone-jarring cold so biting your brain turns into a night-draped glacier but the acute sense of normalcy returning from where it was left behind. Normalcy is that brute middle finger to all the rivalry and the bad experiences picked up at the race track just free riding everyone's minds. Ice cream brings back smiles. Ice cream is a peace maker. If only Pierre had shared this magical childhood experience with Charles, but in Pierre's mind something darker happens at the mention of ice cream and once he realized they were headed in that direction---passing that tight turn with a Gucci store hiding behind a row of potted orange trees---he had told them: "No! It's not happening!" 

Stupidly, Charles had tried to plead with him despite knowing he was at risk of making everything worse between them, knowing he had crossed a line, just because he couldn't stand the heartbreaking sight in the rear-view of an innocent boy's joy and ice cream dream being mercilessly torn away. Even as the black flag slapped him in the face, he didn't stop. Not until the road came to a heartless end in front a strikingly stunning large dock crowded with yachts and sailboats floating on the calmest of deep blue water, and his leaning tower of struggles threatened to collapse and wipe him out. There and then he gave up the fight, swung the steering wheel left-left-left-left-left while holding his breath, turned back towards city and ruefully let Pierre lead their way into. . . a chilly coma-like silence. . . 

Sure enough, it didn’t take long until Alexis catapulted into their grown up snowy-land with sniffing about how he hated sushi. A husky plushie was tossed in anger and bounced softly against the side of Charles’s face before landing perfectly on his lap, staring up at him with its huge, dooming eyes---_Spite_. And then Alexis suddenly reflected over a word one of his parents said earlier, asking what a trip is. Pierre’s vague answer had been it’s a faraway place, but also sitting in the car is a trip in itself. That’s how Pierre started a flood of whys which after a short moment turned out to be just Alexis teasing him and his sweet chuckles thinned the tense air almost into a self-destruct. It’s marvelous that their three-year old son understands how to be a pain in the ass deliberately already. Charles felt pleased Pierre got some taste of that, partially because Pierre was smiling too, but mostly because they’d just shared a positive experience together that cracked the conflict. He dared not to think it more than once; That’s just how ice cream works.    
  
~~~


	11. Them sparks of changes

  
When just about four and a half hours stands between them and the take off to Portugal's coast, Charles sits down on the couch inside their living room to address a couple of urgent work-related emails using his laptop. On the floor, near the black armchair, there is Alexis playing nicely with a few selected toys he chose to bring with him from his room earlier as Pierre decided he had things to do downstairs and Charles agreed to look after their son in the meantime. 

All of today's conflicts has chained themselves into one another, crystallized; hard to push aside; carelessly nagging and dragging in the back of Charles mind as he skims through a helplessly confusing system diagram and then after that: a file revealing multiple layers of various charts, results and feedback from his team’s latest testing at Spa that neither his car or himself took part in. He tries to make sense of it, but for whatever reason he can't. Another survey and he makes up his mind to delay his reply to his engineers to Monday. Closing the window and shame takes him at once. This is slacking. Charles Leclerc does not, under any circumstances, slack at work. There's a sliver of willpower coming through, but even then, even with his finger resting on the mouse button, he can’t click it. He slams the lid close and throws himself back against the couch, considering to lay down, considering himself a mistake. Slowly, it's like the whole room with its pale walls, dark wooden floor, gigantic windows bend over him as the couch seem to swallow him, making him motionless. Void. No... not void. . . there's. . .so...much— 

  
"Chaas?" A low whimpering. 

  
And the only thing Charles wants right now— 

  
"Chaas? I not want Daddy go to-to trip...”   
  
  
—is for someone to hold him. 

  
"Lissen Chaas! Daddy stay here!" There's someone pushing at his leg and Charles feels himself take a deep breath before he turns his eyes at his son. The one thing he feared when agreeing to go on a trip is staring back at him; Painful heartache and despair swimming in pearls of tears crowding Alexis’s eyes. An immediate brutal longing flood him as he just wants to bring him up in his arms and hug him and tell him things are going to be okay, that Pierre’s not going to leave him for good and how did you figure this out? You’re way too smart for your age... Oh, my God... He tries to touch Alexis’s arm, but he pulls his shoulder and arm away at once. But that is not surprising. 

  
"Aw, Alexis. He’s only going away for two nights and then he’ll come back. I promise," Charles tells him softly, attempting what he thinks is a soothing smile.   
  
  
Alexis’s face crumples in on itself and his mouth opens, as if he’s about to let out the loudest wail in mankind’s history. Nothing comes. Not a sound. You would think Charles just punched him in the stomach the way he struggles to catch one single breath. But that only last for about one, two, three . . . and a half seconds, and then he collapses into a sitting, trembling heap on the rug beneath, tears trickling, snot dangling from his nose, squeaking defeatedly. Stunned and cold in the bones, Charles slides down from the couch to sit on the floor next to him, planting his hand close enough so he can at least touch his leg with his fingers. Alexis doesn’t seem to mind him touching, not the brushing his knee with a finger either. It feels somewhat better. Suddenly there’s a long, staggering intake of breath and Alexis starts to cry loudly, crying for daddy and tumbles through many words making not much sense as he cries and inhales and is out of control. Charles knows he made this happen by being a terrible partner. Now he’s stuck with his feet in a terrifying swamp holding two stubborn donkeys by ropes as they struggle from drowning, and he has to let go of one of them for now, and has to be his son who must face this harsh lonesome weekend without Pierre. He almost tells Alexis crying isn’t going to help.   
  
  
“Hey...it’s okay Champ,” he says instead and dares to give him a gentle caress on his arm with the back of a finger. “I got a new racing game in the simulator downstairs. We can go play it together, if you like?” Playing games almost always does the trick.

  
“Daddy,” whimpers Alexis silently in response. “Chaas...” Comes next in the weakest of ways, then nothing but the tormenting sight of Alexis fighting to breath, stuck in a wicked, breathless cry spell.   
  
  
“I’m here. It’ll be okay,” Charles promises, wanting to comfort him more than anything, but loses another fight as he opens his mouth again, yelling loudly, “Pierre! Need you up here, now!”   
  
  
Pierre must have been really close to the stairs as the quick thuds of feet climbing them sounds almost instantly at Charles’s request. Perhaps he was on his way already. When he appears in the living room seconds later, his features are already full of empathy and pity for Alexis, so is his voice as he comes over to them, “I’m here now Alexis. Why so sad?” 

  
Weeping uncontrollably, Alexis can’t answer him, so Charles looks at Pierre and says, “He’s sad over his daddy going on a trip without him.”   
  
  
When Pierre sits down next to Alexis, a mountain of soft relief pushes down the purple storm of distress inside of Charles. He watches their son climb up on Pierre’s lap to hug him and to be hugged, finally consolable. And then everything inside the room seem to straighten up and return back to normal. Charles stays with them, feeling emotionally drained and looking at his husband he sees much of the same tiredness reflect back at him. And they sit there without talking, just meeting each other’s gaze now and then, mutually agreeing on silence. Despite Alexis soft sobs, it does feel like the world, for just one moment, blessed their lives with a well-needed breathing space. 

  
“Why y-you goin leave daddy?” Alexis little sad voice speaks up next to Charles after minutes of breathing. Charles turns his head at them where he sits resting his back and head against the couch, curious to hear what kind of answer Pierre will concoct this time.   
  
  
“I’m going on a trip,” Pierre explains somberly, his voice full of that exhaustion visible on his face. “Which... is a place only for parents and... when they come back home, they’re much happier.”   
  
  
“You are happy,” is the astute answer he gets from Alexis.   
  
  
Pierre laughs a little. “Yeah, I’m happy, but I want to be happier.”   
  
  
“But..and, lissen... Chaas is angy all the time. He go away. Not you.” Finishing his sentence, Alexis shakes his head, pouting. Charles twists his wedding ring silently and thinks his son’s words are like butter knives tough but not cutting.   
  
  
“Charles can’t go on his own,” Pierre says. 

  
“Why?” Alexis mumbles. 

  
“He doesn’t know where it is or how to get there,” explains Pierre easily, too easily, suspiciously like he means it. That Portugal might be a total lie and they are in fact heading somewhere else. Hawaii? Florida? God, no. Too far away for a weekend.   
  
  
“Pleesch stay daddy,” injects Alexis weakly, sniffing, and Pierre hugs him closer with soft hushing.   
  
  
“Hey, what Portugal are we heading to?” Charles asks, like a moron, morbidly curious for the truth of Pierre’s actual plan.   
  
  
“The one by the ocean,” Pierre replies with a smirk, sounding lazy, tired—it surely doesn’t matter—there was a smirk, now it’s gone. He’s cooking something up. “You know, the place with the perfect waves? And the big beach parties?” He goes on for the sake of credibility. “We went there with our families a couple of times as kids and then you and I went back there in 2015 during summer-break.”   
  
  
Charles breathes an amused snort.“No. We went to Greece in 2015.” 

  
“Hang on, I will show you.” Pierre digs out his phone from a pocket, holds it between them and using his right hand, he scrolls through his Instagram until he finds a picture that he enlarges. It contains them on a beach somewhere without description. “Okay, 2016,” he corrects himself upon seeing the date: 16th August, 2016. Alexis is looking down on his phone too, calm and quiet.   
  
  
“Pierre! Nooo.” Charles covers his face with his cold hands, ultimately, overly certain Pierre is lying about Portugal. It only takes him another second to accept he’s been tricked once again and drops his hands, turning a look at him. “I know we didn’t go to Portugal in 2016 because we got engaged that summer in Bahamas. We took that picture the same day.”   
  
  
Pierre’s grey eyes meet his. Charles is staring with his eyebrows slightly raised. He lowers them with a sigh when his husband resists to defend himself and thinks: Suitcase. That’s what he’ll be packing in if they’re going as crazy-far as to Bahamas for a weekend. He also can’t believe that he’s being right about his own guess. Bahamas is too far away!   
  
  
“Oh,” Pierre breathes. “Actually, this is the picture I wanted to show you.”   
  
  
When Charles looks at it, he instantly sees them; on another beach with a flag far away in the background and it’s not Portugal’s—_22nd March, 2017. _He exhales. “Why do you wanna show me a picture from Australia? That’s not even a holiday. It’s a race weekend!”   
  
  
Pierre laughs in that mischievous way of his, meaning he’s most likely full of it and most likely it also means they could be heading to Portugal just as well as any other country on the planet. 

  
“I don’t care," Charles says calmly. “That’s apathetic but it is what I’m thinking. You’re taking me on a trip, that’s basically all I need to know.”   
  
  
Pierre nods, smiling. “Yes... Yeah, really the only thing you should care about and I promise you loads of fun.” He continues to scroll through his Instagram feed. Opens a photo of Esteban Ocon shaking hands with Justin Timberlake at some place posted by Esteban himself. Pierre comments quickly: You got some sunshine in your pocket! Swipes it off screen, scrolls, taps, swipes as Charles loses himself in that quick-paced pattern.   
  
  
“I play too.” Alexis reaches out his hand towards the screen and Pierre kindly lets him touch it with his fingers, letting him tap and scroll, letting him accidentally like someone’s picture, unbothered. When Alexis opens up a short video of what happens to be Daniel Ricciardo doing silly faces he beams and says he’s funny. He wants to watch it over and over. After the twentieth time, it’s their loud doorbell suddenly saying; that’s enough children— with a series of short chimes. There’s only one person who rings doorbells in that impatient manner: Charles’s older brother.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
Charles older brother doesn’t talk much, especially doesn’t talk much to Pierre. They smile and say hi in the hallway, then anything else moving or talking nearby becomes more interesting. On this special day it’s Alexis who’s the center of attention. He shies behind Pierre’s legs as Charles’ brother and his girlfriend tries to entice him out of his hiding place with a brand-new Switch and Go Dino—So cool. Charles intentionally forgets to tell them Alexis has two already, one that still can turn into a truck with enough force while the other one is stuck in half transformation without a head because Pierre sat down on it once, totally by accident. Eventually they can all rejoice over Alexis’s courage, taking small steps to his care takers for the weekend to be rewarded this large box with a new toy inside. His cute voice squeals a polite thanks and he tells them he has one and that daddy broke it and now he is not mad anymore because...because...because he got a new one!   
  
  
“You are adorable,” says the girlfriend with a laugh.   
  
  
“We should start a club little guy ‘cause Charles broke some of my best toys too,” Charles brother says, unaware Charles isn’t the daddy in this case. Charles breathes some kind of half-laugh, feeling like he could bring up all the times his own toys had been trashed by this brother in particular, then resists that itch and says nothing.   
  
  
Everyone wears smiles on their faces that moment, paused emotionally in a warm sphere created out of their shared affection for Alexis. Only when Charles catches Pierre’s unexpected joyless gaze it slices and dices this imaginary cloud 9 that he felt them floating on. Some light cold touches his inner walls, sensing his own melancholy midnight uprising slowly simply from that one stare alone. _Only two more hours_, he mentally tells him---if telepathy had been a thing; _I’m tired too._ But what if Alexis makes it impossible for them to leave? What if he screams? And hits and kicks and falls, falls, falls, until it’d be too inhuman and too cruel to go through with leaving him behind?   
  
  
They have to move forward. They can’t go back. Shows the brother and his girlfriend where to find this and that because they’ll be sleeping over, thinking Alexis will feel a bit safer remaining here in his own home. Afterwards, they all end up downstairs in the gaming room and Alexis gets to play Mario Kart together with almost everyone. Except from Pierre. Pierre left the room first, coldly, mentioning he had a bag to pack. And when he has gone, Charles takes a moment from driving his Luigi kart to better assess Alexis reaction as he stopped playing too, and then wanders over to the doorway. Both Charles’s brother and his girlfriend looks at Charles, like he’s supposed to somehow know how to shepherd his own son. When he doesn’t say anything, his brother takes over: “So, Alexis guess what Pierre told me earlier? He told me you love to drive in the simulator. Want to have a go with me? Is that all right Charles?”   
  
  
Charles nod and Alexis turns back to them, saying, “Not Chaas... He cheats.” They all laugh. Cute little Alexis and his unjust accusations!   
  
  
Once the simulator is running and Alexis, sitting on his uncle’s lap in the seat, is doing his best to keep the F1 car going anywhere but forward on the track, Charles ceases the opportunity to head upstairs and get packing as well. He lets Alexis know he’s leaving and thankfully he doesn’t seem to care one bit right now. 

When Charles enters their soft lit master bedroom, Pierre is talking on his phone facing the wide and tall window opposite of their undone double bed, his voice is nothing but collected. Charles whistles lowly to make him aware of his presence and gets a brief look-over-the-shoulder gaze in return, and then Charles steps through the doorway into their big walk-in closet glorified with even more tiles of dark grey wood, the same as in their living room, as in their kitchen, downstairs and in their bedroom. They went all out on that detail, both fancying to mix pale and darker tones on the grayish scale. There’s a well-used Red Bull travel bag gaping open on the cream-colored chaise lounge standing in the middle of the room, recently abandoned for a phone call. Charles gives it a peek without snooping before digging out his own travel bag from behind his neatly hanged dress shirts, having a fresh picture of a head torch sitting inside his husband’s bag roaming in his mind. It wasn’t tradition to bring that to Portugal. They use them when exploring cave systems and trekking jungles and running at night and biking at night and nothing says: Pack a multi tool and a first aid kit more aggressively than that. Charles snorts.   
He gathers his own head torch and a multi tool the first thing out of a chest of drawers, but he has a feeling it’s just another trick Pierre’s playing on him, that they’re not going on a multi-day hike or inside a cave. He discreetly slips the multi tool and the lamp into his travel bag anyway next to Pierre’s while checking curiously what else he’s packed for this trip. Chewing gum. Normal socks. A GoPro. Sunscreen—He hears footsteps entering the room and he knows they belong to Pierre and he turns to his own side of the closet with multiple rows of double hanged shirts of various models, shelves with sneakers and dress shoes and trekking shoes and designer pants. Footsteps walking in the background and then a loud thud of a bag being put down somewhere and Charles looks in that direction, finding Pierre standing by the island counter now with this hollow look on his face. 

"Do you remember this morning one of the things I said was I don't want Ice cream Fridays as a tradition in our family,” Pierre says to him, turning to pick off a light-colored dress shirt from a hanger—All while Charles is asking himself: Why in hell bring up this again? 

  
“I mean...” Charles was going to remind him that, originally, they couldn’t care less, but he can see that Pierre’s not about to hear it. He just paces back and forth, packing, fuming. “You didn't seem to care when I asked Alexis in the car so I honestly thought you didn't mind,” he says soberly, re-folding a pair of ripped jeans. 

  
"You knew I wouldn’t agree,” Pierre continues a little sharper, annoyed at him. “And I've tried to get it into your head why it's important because if you allow him junk food, he'll refuse to eat anything else for days.” He makes a pause to shove a pair of swim trunks into his bag, then adds bitterly, “Like being alone with him week after week every year isn't enough of a nightmare for me." 

Charles’s heart stutter silently—his whole inner world flips 360 degrees. "Nightmare?” Uttering that one word, he’s faced with feelings and experiences he didn’t know existed inside of Pierre. He wouldn’t go all the way calling it a nightmare unless that’s how he really felt, and it’s a daunting thing, but not the same as giving up. “You're amazing with him and he adores you. And I try really hard to be that amazing,” Charles adds, trying to be gentle around the subject in spite of feeling close to resentful.   


Pierre opens his mouth but turns and walks into the bathroom.   
  
  
“Can’t you see that I'm honestly trying?" Charles asks, his voice coming out harsher than he meant to. 

  
"Yeah, like when you're supposed to be helpful but you do nothing or when you're doing everything to fuck it up so all responsibility ends up on my shoulders,” Pierre answers from inside the bathroom. Coming out shortly after, holding his electric toothbrush as well as toothpaste , he shrugs nonchalantly, “You're really good at it." 

Charles almost starts apologizing, almost starts agreeing with his opinions, agreeing because he’s so fucking helpless, and he understands Pierre’s anger, understands he’s tired of everything. But then he puts down a pair of Prada sneakers inside his bag and confidently says, "Why would you think I fuck up on purpose? That's crazy Pierre." 

  
Pierre exhales as if he was holding his breath. Obviously, that was not at all the answer he was expecting. "But, it's like you're either doing nothing to help or you're doing everything without helping!" 

  
Charles stare at him and wishes that he could somehow make him understand everything. Everything that’s true, everything he thinks and feels, about Alexis, about himself, about them together. How his heart—that stupid wishful organ—aches violently for Pierre’s recognition and his support. But it’s too much for words, so he just waves the white flag, telling him calmly: "Yeah, what more can I say, Pierre? I really try to do my best. Think we should wait to talk about this until we get back home." 

  
"Exactly. Monday's a good day to discuss all of this shit." For the first time in what seems like weeks, Pierre takes a step back in an argument he started, complete and sincere in the way he does it. 

  
"Yeah, it is," Charles agrees, taking a breath and starts closing the distance between them, thinking he can't stand more of these conflicts. Can't stand them like this anymore. Pierre is shoving a red something inside his bag as he comes up, looking nothing but unfazed the moment before Charles catches him around his neck with his arm, dives into the warmth there, colliding against his skin and hair and stubble with lips, nose and cheek. And Pierre, surprisingly unhesitatingly, pulls him even closer to his body with his steady arms wrapping around him firmly. It's very tight. He can barely catch a breath and yet he somehow feels like a sinking ship rising powerfully out of a tsunami-like wave. 

Pierre puts his whole face to his neck, and he speaks, his lips touching him like a feather below his ear and yet his words comes out all muffled somehow, as if talking is too much of a chore while hugging him. Cramped and shut together like an accordion, Charles decides to not dwell on how to reply to that mishmush. He lifts his chin and puts it down to rest his head on the hardness of Pierre's shoulder, taking a small breath as a sunny and beachy memory of them plays like a charming old video in his head. It's so clear and distinctive—still—after nine years of run-time. Sandy barefoot nudges, Coldplay and Katy Perry on repeat, scuba-diving with hand holding, way too many beach cocktails, embarrassingly number of selfies, staying up all night partying, staying up all night watching weird movies, and secret beach-seasoned kisses under the sun... They used to have this. Long before the construction of their current struggles was even thought of. Long before Formula One and Alexis interfered. Long before Jules death, his own father's passing and Romain's disappearance. 

  
"Do you?" Pierre asks softly after a short pause, still gracing his skin with his lips but managed more voice this time. So many answers to his question appears and then quickly takes off like confused little birds inside of Charles mind. Not knowing what the first question was makes it quite exciting. 

  
"I might?" Charles says it like a question, strained and wheezy, holding his breath and then exhales, "Do you?" 

  
Pierre presses his lips to his neck, humming in agreement and finally eases on the pressure around his ribs, slightly. What a gentleman.   
  
  
Still clueless, Charles closes his eyes and feels his skin tickle and prickle amusingly around his ear and jaw as Pierre plants light kisses there. He smiles. Not on purpose, but it's just that the butterflies in his chest won't let him not smile. "Yeah... That... Or you could actually kiss me,” he hints. 

  
"Hello? Charles?" But it has to be someone who puts a sharp split between them, the way their life is. That voice belongs to Charles's brother's girlfriend, sounding close, like she had entered their bedroom. "Are you here? Or..." She continues hesitantly. 

  
Charles quietly withdraws his arm from Pierre’s neck, disappointed. She has no way of knowing how sometimes it physically hurts to disconnect from moments like this one. "Yes! Coming." 

  
Pierre knows what he's doing when next he hums to his neck, "You are mine. You look good..." Because he knows how he works, what draws him in like a magnet, makes his smile widen. Makes him kiss him. 

  
Only if the world wasn't tugging at Charles in the other direction. With a final stare into Pierre's eyes, like not final final, but for now the last plunge in his eyes, Charles turns away from him and walks out of there to check what his brother's girlfriend wants. Turns out Alexis is inconsolable, crying desperately for his daddy and not helping them would be cruel. A genuine surprised look attacks her face, though, when Charles must send Pierre to help comfort and dry tears off their son's cheeks and then stays behind to finish packing. Her exact words: "Oh, I thought daddy was a name for both of you."—perfectly reflects what the surface looks like, what people perceive their family as, and he and Pierre are masters at cheating their minds. 

  
Usually, Pierre is a neat packer. He can manage to stuff half of his wardrobe inside a suitcase if he wants to. So, it's a concern to find his belongings squeezed inside his travel bag so carelessly. Pierre is keeping a lot on his mind lately, and Charles bet there are more conflicts burning in his heart than what have surfaced today. It bothers him and he feels so much guilt. He checks his watch; decides he has time and begins to re-pack and sort all of Pierre's things. Among the usual, like clothes and gadgets, he finds Pierre’s mirrored ski goggles wrapped in a Puma t-shirt and instantly walks to get his own pair—game on. He’s sorts of enjoys how his hints are all over the place. Then his phone purrs out a loop of vibrations inside his pocket. Taking it out, he sees that the caller ID is unknown—possible journalists or telemarketers slipping through the barrier—he shoves his phone back deep into his pocket, thinking he'll check his voicemail later tonight. 

  
  
  
  
  
Not long thereafter the time to say good bye has struck on every watch and display residing in their home. They stand in the hallway and waits for Alexis to finally let go of the dog tag chain Pierre’s carrying around his neck. Charles’s brother holding their son is rapidly uttering words, barren words of guidance to Pierre who is doing what he can to unfold Alexis’s determined little hand. The more force he uses, the worse the screaming and crying gets. Alexis’s heart is breaking and the terror in his scream threatens to put a matching monster inside of Charles chest as he watches on, doing nothing to help. Same as his brother’s girlfriend, stuck in place and her face is dripping of what looks like doubt and fear, maybe catching a thought of backing out in that head of hers. He remembers his mother always having that look when he wanted to follow his older brother out on adventures in their childhood.   
  
He thinks of the consequences of staying versus going for a second while he watches Pierre and Alexis struggle. Then clears his throat, tries to sound casual above the wailing. “Pierre? I think it’s better if you just leave the necklace behind.”   
  
  
Pierre looks disappointed—he’s not coming up with the right suggestion. He’s supposed to make sure that necklace stays around his neck until death do them apart.   
  
  
“Good idea,” Charles brother agrees, like he really thinks it’s a good suggestion.   
  
  
“Care to help?” Pierre cocks his head while looking at Charles. Just as he’s about to say something else, a quick tug breaks the chain apart in the back—two flimsy silvery threads dangles from their son's hand squeezing hard around the tag. And Pierre tilts his head back with a puff, like having just about enough with life, with Charles, with Alexis. With all of it. The same way he reacted being demoted from his seat in team Red Bull to drive for Toro Rosso again back in 2019.   
  
  
Charles’s brother laughs gently—an attempt to disarm the tension. “You're not gonna let Pierre bring his dog tag with him, are you little guy?”  
  
  
Alexis reaches for Pierre in all ways he can, sobbing loudly for him to stay, but this time, Pierre doesn’t yield one bit. And his demeanor changes fast, the softness around the edges of his face stiffens and that’s him about to get into a Formula One car in a race, it doesn’t belong here. It’s hard to understand what kind of emotions he’s struggling with when he shuts down like this. Charles walks up to stroke his son’s head, like he always does before departing for work every now and then and tells him good bye. Pierre is already opening the front door, and then he says good bye too, taking the first few steps towards the elevator further, further down the corridor. They carry their travel bags over their shoulders when heading down that way. Quietly, the door to their apartment shuts close but Alexis’s cries makes it through the walls even then.   
  
  
“Are you okay?” Charles asks his obviously bothered husband as they stop to wait for the elevator, inwardly choking down a number of other questions.  
  
  
Pierre nods faintly, staring hollowly at the red lift doors. “Yeah. I vote for champagne in the limo. I need a drink.”  
  
  
"Promise me, Pierre, you're at least joking about the limo." Charles smiles. The elevator chimes. Doors slide open and reveals a large mirror further inside throwing a miserable reflection of them at their faces, reminding Charles of how they sometimes look after a hectic and draining race weekend. Both of them seem to pause at the sight of their reflections, taking this in.   
  
  
The shape of Pierre's mouth looks a little confused, uncertain if it should smile or frown. "After you super star."   
  
  
Charles eyes him sideways before stepping inside, asking, "Limo?" And Pierre gives him a half of a shrug, pushing the 'E' on the panel and the doors slide close. . . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite my best intentions, I realized this chapter needed more flesh for the plot to not fall flat into a wet puddle and there of its length. I know many readers prefer short and quick-paced chapters and if any of you get through my longer ones, I sincerely hope you enjoy. 
> 
> And to all of you, commenting or not, thanks for continued interest ♥


	12. Against a paler sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally it's here! And it's the longest chapter yet. Hope you brought popcorn and refreshments ;)

Their street is quiet, bathing in shadows and boiling heat. It’s so hot the concrete bleeds a gooey darkness between the two Alfa Romeos parked near the sidewalk in front of Charles and Pierre. Here they sit, on the easy-leveled step to their apartment house entrance, sweating and waiting. Only, Charles hasn’t figured out what is to come from here and doesn’t know how long until it comes either. He looks down the small space between their legs on their hands as Pierre taps two of his fingers upon his index finger in a one-two-one-two rhythm, faster than his pulse throbs. He’s been doing that for a while, absently and silently expressing unrestful emotions of his own, letting Charles drift wherever he mentally desires like a pinball ball, bouncing restlessly between planets, stars and galaxies. No guidance. 

If their ride turns out to be the limousine Pierre wants him to believe he hired, what exactly, can he expect from it? They’d sit comfortably and close, heat themselves up with champagne-flavored kisses to Far East Movement? He’d try to talk and Pierre would listen, and they’d stop arguing? They’d get flushed, shamelessly adventurous and they’d join the Mile High club for their third time? How long until Pierre finds another reason to push him out in the cold, drive him mad, complaining he’s not making good enough efforts and put the blame on him altogether? But fucking hell he loves Pierre, and will get on that limousine and do what he can to patch up the wounds between them because of all the reasons that made Pierre desperate enough to send them away on a rushed weekend abroad. Because he firmly believes this is Pierre trying to fight for them too.   
  
It’s hard to find space to draw a calming breath when anticipation is slowly growing into a homicidal pace. Charles checks the time. 17:23. He lifts his fingers and the drumming stop; his husband’s fingers slide onto his thumb and withdraws fully the moment after.   
  
  
Pierre then says, “Did you pack the explosives?”   
  
  
Charles tilts his head down a tad and raises his eyebrows at him in confusion. Right as he begins to utter the word explosives himself, he remembers that’s the nickname Pierre made up for a new kind of lubricant he bought off the internet a while ago, supposedly intensifying the pleasure. Charles hadn’t tried it himself yet, going solo or otherwise. Pierre had on the other hand and he’s very much, probably, very eager to see him try it as well. Charles smiles weakly. He can see a preview into their night, and he’s liking what he’s seeing. But, no, he didn’t pack it.   
  
  
“You shouldn’t rely on me to pack stuff you recently purchased,” Charles tells him, tenderness sparsely seeping into his voice. He then feels so bad that he instantly offers to run inside and fetch it.   
  
  
“Thanks. I don’t wanna have to...” Something Pierre fears to say it seems, and he refuses to look back at him, refuses to reveal the rest of his sentence. Charles somehow gets it: Go through another fight with their son. He slings his arm around Pierre’s neck, safe and secure, kisses his cheek and pulls away, feeling desire and grudge collide wildly.   
  
  
“Don’t move until I’m back,” he says, like a joke, standing and opens the entrance door while Pierre exhales a slow and low _Love you too _in return behind him. Let Pierre sit there and regret he didn’t say it out louder with emotion. He could have tried harder. Charles says nothing back. Door slams shut.   
  
  
This time he takes the stairs, becoming hyperactive in his muscles from suspenseful waiting and from the tension bolting chaotically between him and Pierre.While climbing, he drifts into contemplating, specifically about how much it hurts, how much he misses Romain, Jules....His father….And his body tells him to run. Run it out. He starts slow-sprinting. With five more stairs to go, he accelerates and takes the steps as fast as he can, sensing his thumping heart pumping out clouds and sunshine into his bloodstream, fighting off stress hormones and ominous thoughts like wolf jaws crushing small rabbits.   
  
  
He didn’t expect—his body neither—this little boy screaming out Chaas! Chaas! When he’s taking his shoes off in their hall. Wailing loudly, Alexis comes running towards him from the living room, his little feet brings him over so, so quick that he loses his breath, stops crying and suddenly stands hugging around Charles leg.   
  
  
Charles’s brother comes out of the kitchen, a little bewildered to see him—of course. “Hm?” He comments, apparently asking why he’s here and not where he should be.   
  
  
“I forgot my passport,” Charles lies, panting, and reaches down to Alexis, and for the first time in ages he sees him eagerly reach back up to him. He can bring him up in his arms, endorse what it’s like to be a father even for this short moment of his life, be the one who consoles and comforts him for once. Alexis wraps both his arms around his neck, crying again and trembles violently, as if in shock or something. Charles can only guess so much about toddlers, but he will be his sturdy branch to quiver on for a while. He takes him with him down the pale hallway, inside their master suite and there he sinks down on the bed, heavily. His body and mind just want to lie down instantly, forget about the trip and the rest of the world. Sleep. Erase the bad. Wake up happy next to Pierre. Alexis arms on the verge of strangling him pulls him out of it. He doesn’t know what to do, how to calm him down. Silence is the best he has to offer.  
  
  
Twenty minutes later, Charles finally reaches the entrance door to their apartment house, out of breath and coated in thin layers of sweat here and there from running down the stairs. He pauses with a hand shivering around the metal door handle. On five, he opens and steps outside. The tingling of his phone buzzing against his leg fires itself into his awareness, but he ignores it, counts to one and then he pushes the door open. Screw two, three, four and five. He will break records, become a world champion in whatever he wants. Floor the gas—The shadows can’t keep up if he means it.   
  
And then, as his equilibrium runs aground and his eyes takes in the street, he’s faced with the truth of his husband’s statement and their planet seem to stop orbiting, his own body frozen in place on the entrance stairs. Right in the middle of the street is the damn limousine he didn’t think Pierre was serious about. White like shaving cream. A really tall and long hummer even, so ugly and unreasonably noticeable Charles wants to wince at command. Speaking of luxury, this is the biggest head-turner Pierre could have hired for them to the airport and makes him feel doubtful that’s even where they are heading, leaves him hanging his foot in mid-air for another breathless second before stepping off the stairs and then makes his way between the two Alfa Romeos, watching Pierre stand by the back-end door looking back at him like I can’t believe you took this long! Charles can’t believe him in return, but looks is all they share concerning that subject.  
  
The hummer has an awful-looking interior. Before he sits, Charles takes it all in; how the orange led lights under the seats graces the grey carpet, the wavy-white shaped seats going all the way into the front, the shine of pristine bottles and chrome from the bar, blue lights lining the windows, blue and purple ones edging a huge mirror reflecting everything back above their heads, the way Pierre is smiling as he browses through the music playlist on a small display by the bar. The ambience is familiar, reminds him of their weekend in multi-colored light-speckled Las Vegas, back when they had enough freedom to plan any type of activities they desired between work-days. They had tried their hand at an escape room, drifted across the Grand Canyon in a hot air balloon, watched the Blue Man group perform, bouncing over sand dunes in a buggy. Heck, they’d even treated themselves with ice cream at one restaurant, defying their diets just for that memory. Gone to night clubs. Been drunk. Had sex. Memories from Las Vegas keeps pouring in. He observes them until Pierre puts on a slow-moving Coldplay song and that swirls him back to present as if he was a penny and the song a magnet. He doesn’t miss the playfulness twinkling in Pierre’s eyes, coaxing a smile out of him somehow, then they are suddenly both smiles and the limo begin moving towards somewhere.   
  
  
Pierre pops open a bottle of champagne. He can’t resist it, as is his way, pours them two glasses of that, comes over and says, “Also available for birthday parties.”   
  
  
“The limo or you?” Charles asks as Pierre sits down so close, he nudges him with a shoulder, his elbow and leg. One glass is handed over to him. He notices it’s a lot less champagne in his than in the one Pierre’s going to devour. Well, you know... Less than two weeks away from a racing weekend, his husband is maybe taking that into consideration, or he’s just attempting to get a slight rise out of him. _Oh_, _Pierre_.   
  
  
Amused, Pierre says, “Both I guess. Think about it, with your birthday coming up we could hire one of these big limos and take some of our friends with us over to Sanremo for a night out.”   
  
  
A night out? Big limo? Where is Pierre going with this? What has gotten into him? Charles turns his head and looks at him, studying his eyes, his face, concluding he’s....serious? This kind of confusion and uncertainty always tickles him in the wrong way, gives him a chill it is a sign they are branching out towards completely different stars and moons, forsaking together and possibly ending up apart. 

  
“It’s a smashing interior in here,” Charles admits, taking a small swallow of the bubble and dry sourness hanging out in his glass, and then he wants Pierre to know, “Reminds me of our stay in Vegas four years ago.”   


Right away, Pierre says, “Yes, it’s very nice.” He drinks too, licks upper lip musingly and then he asks, “Remember the girl who came up to you on the street in Vegas and mistook you for the Harry Potter actor?” Of all the exciting and fun memories to reminiscing about, he chose to dig up something as unimportant as that one.   
  
  
“It didn’t feel like she was serious. But we did lots of cool things, remember?” Charles doesn’t know why he so suddenly needs Pierre to talk about this; why it feels so stupidly important to hear him mention something about their trip that he could say he enjoyed too when it shouldn’t matter.   
  
  
Pierre looks tired. “Yeah... I mean, the American Grand Prix is coming up in a month and we’re coming with you. I think there's a zoo in Las Vegas we could take Alexis to, and what else?”   
  
  
Charles almost says he doesn’t care, but he does care. He cares a lot. He thinks it over briefly before he answers. “I don’t know. We didn’t have a child last time we went there, but... I think they have kid-friendly shows at least. But I was thinking we could head over to LA like we did last year.”   
  
  
Sinking down some, staring into his glass, Pierre mutters, “I’m tired.”   
  
  
“Okay,” Charles allows calmly, putting aside his drink on the shelf in front of them and sits back. “I’m gonna stare at my hands," he says sarcastically, but stares straight ahead out the window instead, anchoring his sight on the constant blue horizon above the tree line and the ocean while fiddling with his wedding ring. Seems his earlier predictions might gone out the window too. There’s a long silence, and he listens to the melancholy Coldplay song playing, and the lyrics hurts physically, even if they’re not so bad. Suddenly he can feel Pierre’s hand touch the back of his own and then how he gently grabs that hand, pulls it over to his lap, as if fiddling with a ring is wrong and has to be prevented.   
  
  
“I like holding your hand even when it gives me a brain freeze,” Pierre lets him know, his tone conveying jest.   
  
  
“Yeah, it’s probably nothing.” Just cold fingers, some have it, some get it, some don't. Charles curls them inward into Pierre’s warm palm. It feels like Pierre’s heart is beating right through his hand; a steady, faithful rhythm.   
  
  
“...What am I thinking of right now?” Pierre asks, sipping more champagne, then puts the glass behind them on a ledge.   
  
  
“I don’t know... my hands?”   
  
  
Pierre shakes his head.   
  
  
“No?... Your hands then?”   
  
  
That guess makes Pierre snort out a laugh, shaking his head again.   
  
  
What then? Charles sighs. “Hand........cuffing.....Hand......job?” 

  
Pierre laughs. “No, I was thinking of kissing you.” 

  
Charles has a sudden urge blowing up reminding every little inch of his body how much he wants that thought to be true. He wants. It. Badly. He lets go of Pierre’s hand and shifts on the seat so that they’re facing each other more intimately and directly, eyeing him with eyebrows raised, inquiringly. No smile or deep affection meets him just Pierre’s alluring composed face and grey eyes radiant with resolve. Yes, emotions; He can see them a little clearer now. Pierre is waiting because it always is a fucking waiting game with him. Charles leans in and kisses him, and he wants Pierre to know he means it; means it to hell and back, so he grabs the side of his head and opens his mouth, and so does Pierre, kissing him back with an unusual impatient hunger. Pierre’s like a dried up well, firmly clutching at Charles’s thigh, his other hand coarsely digging dents into the back of his shoulder, admitting and admitting desperation into Charles’s mouth, and sets a pace Charles can’t match. It’s impossible. The former Red Bull driver tips the scale on him, and Charles is stuck in endlessly receiving-receiving-receiving like it’s been hundreds of years since Pierre last made out. Oh my fucking God, how he enjoys it. Mid-kiss it’s Charles who inches away from Pierre’s face to get the tiniest amount of air seeped into his lungs then pulls him right back, and Pierre returns ruthlessly for more, knocking teeth against his. 

“I want you really, really bad right now,” Pierre murmurs against Charles’s lips, his hand moves farther up his thigh.   
  
  
“I…can't help you,” Charles whispers back through a half of a smile and kisses him slowly; soft lipped. How did they get here so fast? Pierre bolting to get laid already. Pierre pulls his mouth away and looks at his face. Charles tries to not look abashed. But he turns his eyes at the screen separating them from their chauffeur. 

“Stage fright?” Pierre prompts quietly, and Charles wishes he could punch his face for shedding light on his insecurity. Sex in public places isn’t easy. It scares him to be caught in the act. When he turns his gaze back on Pierre, it’s like he pulls the wrong lever, chooses the wrong door out of three as Pierre delivers this line; “Okay, I'm gonna give you two options.”  


“Oh, just two?” After planting a kiss on his neck, taking one final deep breath of his fragrance, Charles sits back, nearly dumbfounded over what is really going on, his breathing shallow. 

“Close your eyes.” This demand from Pierre is like an echo from the past. But Charles closes his eyes, finally recognizing what game this is, and waits, his hearth pounding quick. “Now, bring me your hand,” Pierre says. Almost regretfully, Charles obeys and his whole body tingle at the sound of Pierre messing with the button and zipper on his jeans.   


“What about my options?” He tries to not smile as he says it, as his husband guides his hand to what must be his half-boner. “You wanna…” His fingertips collide with it, this swollen and incredible enticing tower, and it sends a shiver through his own skin. He encircles his hand around it with gentleness, trying to pretend they’re somewhere else. Someplace without windows or a chauffeur, a complete dark room. 

“Tighter,” Pierre instructs him, inhaling or wincing when Charles complies. “Go all the way down.” 

“All the way down,” Charles repeats, sliding his hand down over it, firmly, and stops with a laughter slowly building up in his belly. “Now then?” And then, he hears this heaving and huffing, feels Pierre move his knee into the side of his leg hastily. Fluttering his eyes open, Charles turns a look at him. Did he come? No. He can tell he hasn’t. And Pierre is shaking his head, looking down on himself. Charles, too, looks down at his hand around his cock. It’s draining, struggling to stand firm and tall. Going offline. 

“It’s not working,” Pierre breaths out, looking as confused as Charles feels on the inside. “Your hand is... it’s too cold.”   
  
  
Charles removes his hand, puts it on the seat, and tries very hard to not feel like an idiot. “And my other option is what? My mouth?” Then he almost tells him how he thinks he’s exaggerating, how his hand can’t be THAT cold, but he can read him now—that mountain of indifference coming through again—clenching his jaw shut. 

  
“No... Let’s forget about it,” Pierre mumbles tiredly, tucking his unhappy member back into his pants, rushes to zip them. Then he stands and brings himself slowly over to the other end of the limo, finding himself an empty seat, creating a hurtful distance between them because he’s.... feeling hurt? Embarrassed? Less attracted to him?   
  
  
Charles sighs and thinks: Oh, my God, Pierre... Why do you have to be so unpredictable? If you weren’t so unpredictable and apathetic, I would never have to be the idiot who never understands what’s going on with you. This is when he considers letting Pierre sail off into the winter harboring nothing else but gloomy, silent plains and just wait him out for as long as need be. Except all he can feel is guilt, it stings like a knife into his hand that snuffed out Pierre’s erection, consumes his thoughts, makes his heart go wild. He can hardly breathe. And he realizes, abruptly, that is the problem. He needs to do it differently. Need to make something happen. Anything. Now.   
He stands up out of his seat as if that will help anything. He takes his glass of fizzling champagne, takes a quick breath before he downs it one gulp. He always promised himself that if Pierre would fall out of love with him, if Pierre would stop desiring him sexually, he would quit racing and start a new life somewhere else on his own. But this can’t be what’s happening. He turns his head at him. Pierre is scrolling on his phone the way he scrolls when looking at his Instagram feed. Charles’s opens his mouth. He wants to say it. Sorry. Sorry. He tries to make a sound. Sorry. Say it! But his mouth is so dry. He can’t.   
He takes a breath and a shallower breath, tilting his head back and has to force his body to exhale. The mirror above him reflects back an image of himself that feels so out of place yet so real; fear, fear, fear. What is he fearing? He puts his glass back on the shelf and turns to the touch screen on the wall, scrolling aimlessly through the playlist of Coldplay songs, losing his air quickly. If he picks the right song, the right song with the right lyrics, it will be fine. He picks one, decides a second later it’s not it and picks another one, then another one, coughing hard. He’s actually choking. He keeps pushing the wrong songs over and over, coughing so hard that Pierre comes up to him with a glass of something in it. Charles sips the liquid, but he chokes even more, spewing it all over Pierre. The grimace on his husband’s face feels so electrifying, like a jolt of pain to his heart.   
  
  
“Woah! Shi... no it’s fine. Calm down, Charles. Deep breaths, if you can,” Pierre says worriedly.   
  
  
Charles nods his head yes even though he really can’t. The coughing takes up all the space. It’s like something is stuck in his throat. He coughs and coughs, but it doesn’t do anything. The room shrinks in on him the way it did inside their living room earlier. He shrinks.   
  
  
“Charles... Hey, look at me,” Pierre commands him, soothingly rubbing and caressing the side of his neck, looking at him intently and continues, “Yes, exactly like that. Can you breathe?”   
  
  
Charles is stubborn so he nods, coughing and gasping. He somehow manages to gulp down a cough and his lungs vacuums the small space between their faces clean of air, then he can’t stop hyperventilating. Fingers and toes tingle violently. Panic. He shakes his head at Pierre and stumbles out of his hold, but it’s hard to find a way to move at all. The door, he wants to run before he melts and the world melts. And suddenly it just comes out of him, this wrecking ball of a roar powerfully pouncing at every wall and thing around. Tears pokes his eyes as he screams. Pierre rushes to pull him into his arms, holding him tight and secure, and as sound leaves Charles entirely he finds a struggle to catch his breath. Be over. Be over.   
  
  
“Ple...ase...” His voice comes out with little breath, and feeling so fucking ashamed he pushes at Pierre with his both arms, trembling in his heaving for air.   
  
  
“No, I’m not done hugging you,” Pierre says, moving his hand to the back of his neck, locking him to him with determination hard to fight out of. Hard because Charles body feels like it’s been dragged behind a horse through mud, stone and branches for hours and hours. They stand like that for a long moment. Sometimes Charles feels like running away, sometimes it feels okay to be hugged, sometimes there’s a burn in his eyes then it fades and yet relief weaves into the purple storm steadily. Pangs of shame and guilt washes ashore as soon as he reminds himself of what had just happened. Right in front of Pierre he broke down, worse than ever before, and now that image of him will remain inside their minds for the rest of their lives. So stupid. So fucking stupid.   
  
“I love you,” Pierre says in a low voice, nuzzling his neck.   
  
  
The sentence hangs in the air like an echo. Charles throat feels raw. “You mean it?” His voice falters, and he can’t stop the one teardrop from falling. 

  
“Yeah, I swear.” 

* * *

After they get out of the limousine at the airport, they have an unspoken understanding to hustle inside and through the building quickly to minimize the risk of being spotted by fans. The two of them walks in a brisk pace through the long indoor-alley complimented with boutiques on both sides, caps as well as sunglasses on. Pierre’s already talking about the dinner they’ll be served on the plane, but Charles is too shaken and exhausted from earlier to eat anything yet, so he suggests he just have a drink for dinner and eat later tonight, be it at the hotel or at a restaurant. But Pierre says, “I feel like I should force feed you a large quantity of ice cream since you’re feeling bad and it’s Friday.”   
  
  
“You know, I just wanna say it—” Charles thinks he hears his name being called out by a man, whips around and Pierre does it too. He can’t see anyone looking like they’d just said his name out loud so he turns around and they scurry on, Charles coming back to his subject, “The way you got really angry with me, for making you lose your boner with my cold fingers—”   
  
  
“You got angry with me,” Pierre points out, putting an arm around his shoulders like he wants to comfort him.   
  
  
Charles keeps talking. “—Was really romantic.”   
  
  
Pierre takes a long look at him. “First of all, let me say, it’s not easy to keep it up, squashed by cold fingers. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried that, but it’s not easy. I mean, take a real cold shower...”   
  
  
How daring of him to compare the temperature of his hands with a cold shower. It’s as if he’s making up as he goes along, afraid of putting the blame on his own body and what that could mean. Pierre often shifts and deflects his own mistakes onto others, even objects like his F1 car, and Charles senses he might be doing that right now and he can’t let him do that to him. Then, asking himself what else could be the issue behind it, a huge frightening black hole inflates before his eyes swiftly and his fear of losing Pierre jabs his heart like a cold dagger. It hurts too much, makes his lungs empty of air so he pushes it further back, and further back. FURTHER and further back into his mind until the murky rims turn bright and promising again. Nothing is wrong. He tries a smile.   
  
  
“I bet you I can...do it with my hand in a cold shower without losing my...” They are passing by a large cafe in the middle of the street so Charles leaves out all the dirty words in case anyone would be listening, in case that person knows who he is. The risk of becoming a meme was too big in this world.   
  
  
“Yeah, you should totally do it,” Pierre says with a smile, pulling away his arm. “Mind if I watch?”   
  
  
Charles snorts awkwardly. “Just watch?”   
  
  
Just as they’re about to make a turn, heading for the last stretch of corridor, someone calls loudly from behind somewhere: “Charles Leclerc!” The thing with fans who yell their names is they are often so desperately eager to steal a moment of their time that they run like maniacs to catch up with them, bulldozing anything out their way. When Charles turns his head to look behind, he can’t see anyone running or heading purposefully towards him, and he doesn’t think he recognize the voice as someone he knows either. Two men dressed in suits, pulling along posh suitcases looks back at him, discreetly exchanging words suddenly. His name gets called out again, still far away, as if the person hasn’t moved at all. Charles instinctively slows down, confused. 

  
  
“Come on,” Pierre says, his eyes meet Charles’s, and Charles knows he’s impatient enough to take him over one shoulder and run for their flight unless he heeds now. “Don’t let your fans catch up with us,” Pierre says to him. They start walking again and entering the last corridor, that voice doesn’t reach them again.   


* * *

  
  
  
What a nice interior their private jet offered them as they stepped inside. White walls, grey carpet, dark brown wooden details on the TV console further in and on the white couch on the opposite side. Nothing like the wicked limousine but a nice soothing and relaxing environment to settle down in. One of the flight attendants inside the plane offers them to take their luggage, having a cute gap between her front teeth becoming visible in her smile as well as a faint hint of a blush on her cheeks when Charles shows his appreciation by saying, “Thanks. This may be heaven.” Talking about the plane, not her. She didn’t get any words out before they parted. She looked as though he’d swung her into his arms to kiss her, without any effort.   
  
Pierre kept himself busy pulling down the blinds on every window inside the main cabin before the takeoff—the reason being unknown. He doesn’t give away his reason, only shrugs when Charles confronts it. Charles enjoys looking out when flying—merge the cotton-like clouds with the scenic ridges and valleys to some good music playing into his ears, but since he’s here with his husband, admiring landscapes falls short on the list of things to admire. He lets the blinds be.   
  
Thirty minutes later, after Pierre has cleared his plate of chicken skewers with tzatziki, leaving only a small pile of mushrooms and moves on to the fresh berries and cream dessert, Charles takes out his phone for the first time in hours. He has to check if he’s missed anything of importance. He puts his arms on the glossy wooden table, pushes aside his glass of Valpolicella carefully and unlocks his phone. His teeth bores lightly into the soft flesh of his bottom lip. It unnerves him how the background picture of him, Pierre and Alexis is barely visible behind the wall of notifications stacked upon each other, then the sheer volume of people wanting his attention snakes in there too and he exhales tiredly.   
  
  
“What?” Pierre asks, spooning cream and berries into his mouth, staring him out curiously. His awareness of him and his human noises had been on alert mode ever since his panic attack inside the limousine.   
  
  
Charles makes a face, shaking his head faintly. “I have seven missed phone calls. Four new emails and more than fifteen texts to go through.”   
  
  
“Yeah, I sent you like four texts earlier when you wouldn’t come outside. I also called you once. What were you up to all that time?”   
  
  
Smiling, Charles reveals, “I fell asleep with Alexis on our bed.”   
  
  
“Oh, dang it... I missed out.” Pierre replicates his smile, bringing his glass of water to his lips.   
  
  
“Yeah.” Charles nods a little, browsing through the list of missed phone calls, feeling so tired and blue he wished he’d never gotten out of their bed. Wished he had stayed with their son cuddling into his side, breathing perfect little breaths against his skin and just dropped everything. Three of the numbers are unknown. He bins them. One is from his older brother. The next one from Pierre. And the two remaining are from work—they can’t give him a rest even during summer break. His older brother has sent him a text asking for hearing protection. It gives him a reason to smile properly and he shows it to Pierre, sharing a piece of mutual amusement is never wrong. Only, as time goes by from that moment on, he notices a big change in Pierre. It gets harder to read him emotionally. He shuts him out, but not entirely as he still replies when talked to, but less engaged. When Charles asks how he’s feeling, he gets Pierre’s universal answer that he’s tired. Charles lets him be.   
  
At 21:10, they’ve finally landed. Almost an hour of flight time, Charles concludes standing next to his husband in the entry cabin, dropping his left arm with his wrist watch. This was the moment of truth, no way of preparing himself, he must face it and accept what’s out there. Once the door open, he will know. He’s been to two different airports in Portugal, and he believes he can tell countries apart by looking at the buildings and the surroundings enclosing the airports. Pierre is a mussel, closed and unreadable, though, still giving him enough attention to rule out hard feelings.   
  
  
The moment the cute flight attendant opens up the door and let’s inside a bleak, sleepy streak of sunset-light, Charles puts a hand on Pierre’s back, asking, “Portugal?”   
  
  
Twitching a weak smirk, Pierre gives him a push forward. “I don’t know. I don’t know,” he quickly says, having more than enough smile on his voice to make Charles realize he’d been fooled. And stepping outside it’s the cool breeze against his skin that makes it even more apparent. He makes it down the stairs slowly and beholds the tall and snow-packed mountain ridges in the distance, and there’s a large hill stretching far and wide full of green luster to his right, things are bathing in glimmering sunshine all around. This isn’t Portugal. It reminds him of many other places, but not Portugal. Not one bit.   
  
There’s a car parked next to the plane, and a large man with a huge smile climbs out of it as Pierre and Charles touches ground with their shoes. He opens up the passenger door in the back and calls them over in French. Maybe this is when Pierre will reveal the actual name of the country they’re in. Pierre is reaching inside his travel bag as they walk side by side towards their ride and pulls out a package of chewing gum. He puts two in his mouth and then holds out the package to Charles. He’s so generous coming to sharing food, but sharing information? Charles fishes out one piece of gum, not overly found of the combination melon and mint.   
  
  
“Where are we?” Charles asks him, stopping outside the car and unstraps the bag from his shoulder.   
  
  
A smile spreads across Pierre’s face like a slow sunrise, sparking a flame of suspense to life in Charles’s chest. Say it. The chauffeur comes around and takes Charles’s bag, then he reaches out his hand towards Pierre, waiting to be handing his bag as well.   
  
  
“You’re in Switzerland Mr Leclerc,” the chauffeur announces easily, turning away with their bags and walks over to the trunk.   
  
  
Charles’s heart rate picks back up again and he turns his eyes on the mountains, mouth drying up. Pierre stands really still when Charles turns back to him, like he’s worried to hear his reaction. “Are you mad?” he asks.  
  
  
“No. I’m actually wondering if you’re mad at me.” Charles touches his arm, feeling that it could be a realistic reason to why Pierre brought them here. This place connected with Romain connected with Pierre’s jealousy.   
  
  
Pierre takes a step closer to him, this confused light in his eyes. “I’m not mad. I thought it’d be a fun surprise if you didn’t know the real destination and I’ve got another surprise planned for tomorrow.”   
  
  
Charles nods, accepting his explanation as the truth. "It sounds fun, Pierre. Good thing I packed my ski goggles." He turns away, gets inside the car, and instantly starts fidgeting with his wedding ring. Twisting, twisting, twisting, twisting...   
  
  


* * *

  


They fall into bed almost immediately after entering their hotel room later that night, both looking like repeats of themselves after any race gone horribly; followed by debrief meetings followed by press meetings followed by overthinking everything. Pierre is still hungry so he eats the golden-wrapped piece of chocolate lying on the left pillow, then he goes to brush his teeth and Charles tosses the other chocolate over to Pierre’s side of the bed before getting undressed. When they are both in bed and struggle way too hard to find the energy to keep kissing and touching each other, they both turn their attention to their phones. The bed is draped with a softness so cool, so relaxing, Charles can’t resist to deactivate his phone after only a minute and says good night to Pierre with a kiss. He turns to lie on the side, facing Pierre since that’s the side he prefers falling asleep on, pushes a hand under his own pillow and closes his eyes. At the instant he does, he’s back at the Spanish GP in 2018. With Romain. He had found him in utter despair seated on the ground, covering his face with his hands. His whole frame shook with emotion, and it seemed as if he would have wept, but no tear would start. Charles sat with him so he would not feel alone, and sat in silence for a while looking at his hands casting slim shadows on the white concrete wall. He tried to make a shadow puppet; a bird like his mother showed him when he was a child, but his looked all wrong. More like a mutated starfish. Romain had taken a trembly shallow breath before coming out of his hiding, eyes pouring with distress as he offered to help him fix his broken bird. Turned out he knew a whole range of shadow puppets that he showed him, and soon they started smiling. Charles tried his best to mimic some of them. And Romain was encouraging and positive, visibly feeling better, enjoying his company. They laughed a lot. It was silly, they were being childish grown-ups. He didn’t know Romain had silly in him, didn’t know he struggled with anxiety, he honestly didn’t know much about him, but he did from that day onward. Until. . . Fuck it.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought of tearing this chapter into two parts, then I changed my mind because it just felt wrong, you know? My intuition got in the way. 
> 
> If you feel unhappy about something, let me know. If you feel happy about something, let me know. Correct me if I've got my facts wrong. It all counts! Your thoughts and opinions are mighty words of guidance and encouragement. 
> 
> And as always, to whoever you are---Thanks a bunch for reading this far into my story <3 Hope you enjoyed.


End file.
